

Book _ *F G 34 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


5 















/ 


THE COPPER BOX 


BY 

J. S. FLETCHER 

It 



? O 2 2 . 


C? 



NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 




THE COPPER BOX. I 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



CONTENTS 


I 

The Lady of Kelpieshaw 

PAGE 

. . 9 

II 

The Second Stranger 

, , , 27 

III 

Copper . 


IV 

Midnight Warning . 

. . . 63 

V 

Sir Charles Sperrigoe . 

. . . 81 

VI 

The Irrepressible Newsman . 

... 99 

VII 

What the Dying Man Said . 

. . . 117 

VIII 

One Minute Past Midnight . 

. . . 135 

IX 

The Whitesmith's Parlour . 

. . . 153 

X 

Known at the Crown 

. . . 171 

XI 

Back to Elizabeth 

. . . 189 

XII 

The PalJceney Motto 

. . , 207 




















THE COPPER BOX 






























I 








THE COPPER BOX 


i 

The Lady of Kelpieshaw 

A LTHOUGH it was springtide by the 
calendar, and already some little way 
advanced, the snow time was by no means over 
in that wild Border country. The exact date 
was April 19. I fix it by the fact that my 
birthday falls on the 18th, and that I spent 
that one, the twenty-third, in an old-fashioned 
hotel at Wooler, and celebrated it by treating 
myself at dinner to the best bottle of wine the 
house afforded. It may have been the bottle 
of wine—but more likely it was sheer igno¬ 
rance and presumption—that prompted me 
next morning to attempt what proved to be 
an impossible feat of pedestrianism. I set 
out immediately after breakfast intending be¬ 
fore nightfall to make a complete circuit of 
the country which lies between Wooler and 



10 


The Copper Box 

the Scottish border, going round by Kirknew- 
ton, Coldbum, and the Cheviot, and getting 
back to my starting-point by Hedgehope Hill 
and Kelpie Strand. That would have been a 
big walk on a long and fair summer day; in 
the uncertainty of a northern April it was a 
rash venture, which landed me in a highly un¬ 
pleasant situation before the close of the after¬ 
noon. The morning was bright and promis¬ 
ing, and for many enjoyable hours all went 
well. But about three o’clock came a disap¬ 
pearance of the sun and a suspicious darkening 
of the sky and lowering of temperature; before 
long snow began to fall, and in a fashion with 
which I, a Southerner, was not at all familiar. 
It was thick, it was blinding, it was persistent; 
it speedily obscured tracks, and heaped itself 
up in hollows; I began to have visions of be¬ 
ing lost in it. And between five and six o’clock 
I found myself in this position—as far as I 
could make out from my pocket-map, I was 
at some point of the Angle between the Chev¬ 
iot, Cairn Hill, and Hedgehope Hill and at 
the western extremity of Harthope Burn, but 
for all practical purposes I might as well have 
been in the heart of the Andes. I could just 


The Lady of Kelpieshaw 11 

make out the presence of the three great hills, 
but I could see nothing of any farmstead or 
dwelling; what was worse, no house, wayside 
inn, or village was marked on my map—that 
is, within any reasonable distance. As for a 
path, I had already lost the one I was on, and 
the snow by that time had become a smooth 
thick white carpet in front of me; I might be 
safe in stepping farther on that carpet, and I 
might sink into a hole or bog and be unable to 
get out. And the nearest indicated place— 
Middleton—was miles and miles away, and 
darkness was coming, and coming quickly. 

The exact spot in which I made these rough 
reckonings was at the lee side of a coppice of 
young fir, whereat I had paused to rest a 
while and to consider what was best to be 
done. Clearly, there was only one thing to 
do!—to struggle on and trust to luck. I pre¬ 
pared for that by taking a pull at my flask, in 
which, fortunately, there was still half its orig¬ 
inal contents of whisky and water left, and 
finishing the remains of my lunch. But the 
prospect that faced me when I presently left 
my shelter and rounded the corner of the cop¬ 
pice was by no means pleasant. The snow was 



12 


The Copper Box 

falling faster and thicker, and darkness was 
surely coming. It looked as if I was either to 
struggle through the snow for more miles than 
I knew of, or be condemned to creep under 
any shelter I could find and pass a miserable 
night. But even then my bad luck was on the 
turn. Going onward and downward, from off 
the moorland towards the valley, I suddenly 
realised that I had struck some sort of road 
or made track; it was hard and wide, as I as¬ 
certained by striking my stick through the 
snow at various places. And just as suddenly, 
a little way farther to the east, I saw, bright 
and beckoning, the lights of a house. 

The dusk was now so much fallen, and the 
whirling snow-flakes so thick that I had come 
right up to it before I could make out what 
manner of house it was that I had chanced 
upon so opportunely. It stood a little back 
from the road, on its north side, and in a sort 
of recess in the moorland, with the higher 
ground shelving down to its walls on all sides 
except that on which I stood. There was a 
courtyard all round it; on three sides of this 
the walls were unusually high, but on mine 
lower—low enough to enable me to see what 


The Lady of Kelpieshaw 13 

stood inside. And that was as queer-looking 
a house as ever I had seen. Its centre was a 
high, square tower, with a battlemented head; 
from its west and east angles lower buildings 
projected—lower, yet of considerable height; 
at one of the angles of these wings, connecting 
it and the tower, there was a round turret, 
with a conical top—altogether the place was 
so mediaeval in appearance that it made me 
think of marauding barons, cattle forays, and 
all the rest of it. That the house was ancient I 
gathered from one circumstance—there was 
not a window anywhere in its lower parts. 
These seemed to be of solid masonry, un¬ 
pierced by window or door; the lights I had 
seen came from windows fifteen or twenty feet 
above the level of the courtyard—one in the 
round turret, one in the left wing, a third in 
the right. 

It was not until I was in the courtyard, 
knee-deep in drifting snow, that I made out 
where the door stood. It was at the foot of 
the turret, and when I reached it, I saw that 
it was in keeping with the rest of the place—■ 
a stout oak affair, black with age, studded 
with great square-headed iron nails, and set 


14 The Copper Box 

in a frame as sturdy as itself. It was one of 
those doors which look, being shut, as if it 
would never open, and when after a brief in¬ 
spection I beat loudly on its formidable tim¬ 
bers—no bell being visible—it was with a won¬ 
der as to whether such a feeble summons 
would carry through that evident thickness. 

But the great door swung back almost at 
once. There, before me, a lamp held above her 
head, stood an elderly woman, a tall, gaunt, 
hard-featured woman, who first started with 
obvious surprise at seeing me, and then stared 
at me with equally apparent suspicion. There 
was no friendliness in her face, and the lack of 
it drove out of my head whatever it was that 
I had meant to say. But I managed to stam¬ 
mer an inquiry. 

“Oh—er—can vou tell me where I am?” I 

«/ 

said. “I mean—what is the nearest village, or 
inn? I’m making my way to Wooler, 
and-” 

It seemed to me that the door was about to 
be closed in my face; certainly the woman nar¬ 
rowed the already small opening between us. 

“There’s nothing’ll be nearer than Middle- 
ton,” she answered, “and you’ll keep straight 






The Lady of Kelpieshaw xg 

i n the road outside, and that II be maybe six 
miles.” , • 

“Six miles—in this snow!” I exclaimed. 
“Ill be——” 

“There's nothing nearer,” she made haste to 

say. “There's no house at all between this and 
Middleton. And I’d advise you to be getting 
along, for the snow’ll be far worse ere the 
night’s fallen than what it is, and the road 
is not-” 

The voice of a girl, clear, musical, and with 
a touch of masterfulness in it, broke in on the 
woman’s harsh accents. 

“Tibbie! What is it?—who is there?” 

1 

The woman frowned. But—involuntarily 
—she opened the door wider. I saw then that 
she was standing in a square stone hall of very 
small dimensions, and that from her right hand 
stone steps, obviously set in a newel stair, gave 
access to the upper regions of this queer old 
place. And I saw more—I saw a pair of slim 
and shapely ankles, in smart stockings and 
shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the pro- 
jection of the stair out of all else. 

“It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his 




i6 


The Copper Box 

way,” said the janitor. “He’s for Wooler, 

and I ve told him--” 

“For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, 
Tibbie! Why-— 

The smart shoes suddenly tripped down the 

stair. Before I could realise my luck their 
owner was confronting me with curiosity and 
interest. I suppose I looked pretty forlorn 
and tramp-like; my water-proof coat was none 
O ' U o newest, ind I was wearing a disrepu¬ 
table. favourite old hat. But I uncovered and 
made mv best bow. And if I stared it was be- 

w 

cause the light of the old woman’s lamp 
showed me the prettiest girl I had ever had the 
good fortune to see. Perhaps, because we 
vere both you g, I made bold to smile at her 

—knowingly. 

“You think I shall be—lost in the snow and 
found dead i the morning?” I suggested. 

“That’s precisely what you will be if you try 
to react. Woe hr to-night,” she answered, with 
some iivelku . “Such a thing’s impossible! 
even f you I lew the way, and I think you 
don’t. Of course, you must stay here. My 
guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but-” 





The Lady of Kelpieshaw 17 

“The master is not one for strangers, miss,” 
interrupted the old woman. “His orders-” 

The girl turned on her with a flash of her 
grey eyes that gave me a good notion of her 
imperious temper and general masterfulness. 

“Fiddle-de-dee, Tibbie!” she exclaimed. 
“Your master would have a good deal to say 
if we turned anybody from his door on a night 
like this. You must come in,” she went on, 
turning smilingly to me. “Mr. Parslewe is 
the most hospitable man alive, and if he were 
in he’d welcome you heartily. I don’t know 
whether he’ll manage to get home to-night or 
not. But I’m at home!” she concluded with 
a sudden glint in her eye. “Come up the 
stair!” 

I waited for no second invitation. She was 
already tripping up the stair, holding her 
skirts daintily away from the grey stone wall, 
and I hastened to follow. We climbed some 
twenty steps, the old woman following with 
her lamp; then we emerged upon another and 
larger hall, stone-walled like that below, and 
ornamented with old pikes, muskets, broad¬ 
swords, foxes’ masks; two doors, just then 
thrown wide, opened from it; one revealed a 



18 The Copper Box 

great kitchen place in which an old man sat 
near a huge fire, the other admitted to a big, 
cosy parlour, wherein the firelight was danc¬ 
ing on panelled walls. 

“Take off your things and give them to Tib¬ 
bie,” commanded my hostess. “And, Tibbie— 
tea! At once. Now come in,” she went on, 
leading me into the parlour, “and if you’d like 
whisky until the tea comes, there it is, on the 
sideboard. Have some!” 

“Thank you, but I’ve just had a dose,” I 
answered. “I had some in my flask, very for¬ 
tunately. You are extremely kind to be so 
hospitable.” 

“Nonsense!” she laughed. “You couldn’t 
turn a dog out on a night like this. I don’t 
know if my guardian will manage to get 
home—he and his old pony can do wonders, 
and they’ve sometimes got through when the 
drifts were two or three feet thick. But you’re 
all right—sit down.” 

She pointed to a big arm-chair near the fire, 
and I obeyed her and dropped into it—to 
make a more leisurely inspection of my sur¬ 
roundings, and my hostess. The room was 



The Lady of Kelpieshaw 19 

evidently a part of the square tower I had seen 
from without, and filled a complete story of 
it; there were two high windows in it, filled 
with coloured glass; the panelling all round 
was of some dark wood, old and time-stained; 
the furniture was in keeping; there were old 
pictures, old silver and brass, old books—it 
was as if I had suddenly dropped into a 
setting of the seventeenth century. 

But the girl was modern enough. She 
seemed to be about nineteen or twenty years 
old. She was tallish, slenderish, graceful; her 
hair was brown, her eyes grey, her face bright 
with healthy colour. I thought it probable that 
she spent most of her life out of doors, and I 
pictured her in tweeds and strong shoes, 
tramping the hills. But just then she was 
very smart in indoor things, and I was thank¬ 
ful that I myself, now that my outer wrap¬ 
pings had been discarded, was wearing a new 
suit, and looked rather more respectable than 
when I knocked at the door. 

There was a lamp on the table, recently 
lighted, and the girl turned up the wick, and 
as its glow increased turned and looked at me, 
more narrowly. 


20 


The Copper Box 

“You’re a stranger, aren’t you?” she ^said. 
“You don’t belong to these parts?” 

“Quite a stranger,” I answered, “or I 
shouldn’t have been so foolish as to attempt 
what I was attempting.” I gave her a brief 
account of what I had been after. “So you 
see how lucky I am to be saved, as you have 
saved me! And please allow me to introduce 
myself—my name’s Alvery Craye, and I come 
from London.” 

“London!” she exclaimed, wonderingly. 
“Where I have never been! My name—you’ll 
think it a curious one—is Madrasia—Madra- 
sia Durham. Did you ever hear such a queer 
name as Madrasia?” 

“Never!” said I. “How did you get it?” 

“Born in Madras,” she answered. “My 
father was a merchant there. Mr. Parslewe, 
my guardian, with whom I live here, was his 
partner. They died—my father and mother, 
I mean—when I was little, so Mr. Parslewe 
has looked after me ever since. We came to 
England three years ago, and Mr. Parslewe 
bought this old place, and fitted it up. Do 
you like it?” 

“From what I’ve seen of it, immensely,” I 




The Lady of Kelpieshaw 21 

answered. “What is it, exactly—or, rather, 
what has it been?” 

“Mr. Parslewe says it was a sixteenth-cen¬ 
tury peel tower—a sort of castle, you know,” 
she answered. “There are a good many here 
and there, on each side of the Tweed. We 
stayed for some time at Berwick when we 
came to England, looking round for an old 
place. Then we found this, and settled down. 
It’s delightful in summer, and in winter it’s 
weird!” 

“Has it a name?” I asked. “Because it’s 
not marked on my map.” 

“Name?—Yes!” she answered. “It’s called 
Kelpieshaw—that’s Kelpie Strand, that lies 
outside it, between Langlee Crags and 
Hedgehope Hill. But you’ll see more in the 
morning—if the storm’s cleared.” 

The old woman came in with the tea-tray. 
Whether she resented my presence or not, she 
knew her duties, and her home-made cakes 
were as good as her face was stern. 

“That’s our sole domestic,” observed my 
hostess, as she poured out the tea. “Tibbie 
Muir: she’s been with us ever since we came 
here. The old man you saw in the kitchen is 


22 


The Copper Box 

her husband, Edie Muir. He’s a sort of useful 
adjunct. He grooms the pony, potters about 
the house, and nods over the fire. He’s very 
little to do, but Tibbie is a marvel of activity.” 

“I hope she’ll forgive me for coming,” I 
said. 

“Oh, her bark is worse than her bite! She’s 
one of the faithful servants you read about in 
books and rarely meet in real life. She’s un¬ 
der the impression that if Mr. Parslewe hap¬ 
pens not to be at home it’s her duty to be on 
guard. I believe she thinks of me as a mere 
child. But I’m mistress, of course!” 

“I hope Mr. Parslewe will not think me an 
intruder?” I suggested. “I suppose I could 
have struggled through.” 

“And I suppose you couldn’t,” she retorted 
imperatively. “As for Mr. Parslewe, he’ll be 
delighted to see you. If you can talk to him 
about anything old—old books, or pictures, 
old pots, pans, and plates, he’ll be more than 
delighted.” 

I glanced round the room. It was one of 
those rooms which are difficult to light—there 
were dark and shadowy places and recesses. 
But I could see cabinets and presses, shelves 


The Lady of Kelpieshaw 23 

and cases, evidently full of the sort of things 
of which Miss Durham had just spoken; there 
was also, on my left hand, a massive sideboard, 
covered with what looked to me like old silver. 

“Is Mr. Parslewe a collector, then?’’ I 
asked. “Or is he an antiquary?” 

“A bit of both, I think,” she answered, as 
she handed me a tea-cup. “Anyway, he’s 
always bringing home some curiosity or other 
that he’s picked up. And he spends most of 
his time reading his old books—there’s a room 
higher in the tower full of books—big things 
that one can scarcely lift.” 

“And how do you spend your time?” I in¬ 
quired. “Not that way?” 

She shook her head, laughing. 

“That way?” she said. “No!—not yet, any¬ 
way; I’ll leave that sort of thing till I’m old 
and frumpy. No, I spend my time out of 
doors mostly. A bit of fishing, a bit of run¬ 
ning after the beagles, and a good bit of shoot¬ 
ing. We have the shooting round about; it’s 
rough shooting, but good.” 

“You’re a regular Diana,” I remarked. 
“And Mr. Parslewe, does he go in for sport?” 

“Not much,” she replied. “Sometimes he 


24 The Copper Box 

goes fishing, and now and then he’ll carry a 
gun. But he usually becomes meditative over 
a stream, and is generally looking somewhere 
else if anything gets up in front of his gun, 
so his performances don’t amount to much.” 
She laughed again, and then looked half- 
archly, half-inquisitively at me. 

“I’m wondering what you do with your¬ 
self,” she said. 

“I? Oh! I paint a bit,” I answered. 

“So, sometimes, does my guardian,” she re¬ 
marked. “He calls it daubing, but they aren’t 
bad. There are two of his works of art on that 
panel.” 

She pointed to two small water-colour 
sketches which, framed in gilt, hung in a re¬ 
cess near the hearth. I rose and looked at 
them. One was of the house, the other a view 
of the Cheviot. There was some feeling of 
performance in both. 

“What do you think of them?” she asked. 
“Perhaps you’re a swell hand at that sort of 
thing?” 

“Very nice,” I replied. “And interesting, 
to me. My reason for wandering round to-day 
was that I wanted to find a good subject. I 


The Lady of Kelpieshaw 25 

think I’ve found one, this place. I could make 
a good picture of it, with the hills as the back¬ 
ground.” 

“Do, do!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll make 
my guardian buy it from you; he often buys 
pictures. You might put me in it, with my 
gun and my dogs; I’ll show you the dogs in 
the morning—beauties!” 

We got on very well together, chatting in 
this light-hearted fashion. The evening passed 
on, but Mr. Parslewe did not come. We had 
supper; still he did not come. And at ten 
o’clock my hostess pronounced a decision. 

“He won’t come to-night, now,” she said. 
“And it’s my bed-time. Tibbie will take 
charge of you, Mr. Craye, and I can promise 
you that your bed is properly aired. Don’t 
be afraid of the room; it looks as if it were 
haunted, but it isn’t.” 

She gave me her hand, smiled, and went off, 
and presently the old woman appeared and 
conducted me to a chamber in one of the wings. 
It was more mediaeval in appearance than the 
parlour, but it was remarkably comfortable, 
and there were hot bottles in the bed. 

I believe I fell asleep as soon as my head 


26 The Copper Box 

fairly settled on the pillow, and at once 
dropped into a sound slumber. I have no 
idea as to what time it was during the night 
when I woke suddenly and sharply, to find 
a man standing at my bedside, and, by the light 
of a bull’s-eye lantern, looking down on me 
with a half-shrewd, half-whimsical expression. 


II 


The Second Stranger 

1 SAT straight up in bed, blinking at the 
light and its holder. Half-asleep though 
I was, I got an impression of my visitor. An 
ascetic-looking, clean-shaven man, with a big, 
well-shaped nose, and firm thin lips, which, in 
unison with a pair of keen, observant eyes, 
could, as I found out later, assume various ex¬ 
pressions, changing from intense disagreeable¬ 
ness to peculiar sweetness. Just then eyes 
and lips were quite agreeable—in fact, their 
owner laughed gently. 

“All right, young master!” he said, in a 
voice as sweet and mellow as his smile. “Fall 
to your sleep again—I only just wanted to 
see what strange bird we’d got in our roost.” 

He laughed again and made for the door. 
I found my voice. 

“Mr. Parslewe?” I asked interrogatively. 

“At your service, sir,” he answered, with a 

sort of mock politeness. “James Parslewe.” 

27 



28 


The Copper Box 

“I hope I’m not-” I began. 

“Are you warm enough?” he inquired, sud¬ 
denly stepping back to the bedside and lay¬ 
ing a hand on its coverings. “It’s a gey cold 
night, and I’m thinking you’re not of these 
parts.” 

“Oh, I’m warm enough indeed, thank you,” 
I assured him. “Couldn’t be more comforta¬ 
ble, sir.” 

> 

“Then go to sleep again,” he commanded, 
with another of his half-jesting, half-cynical 
laughs. “You’re heartily welcome to my 
ancient roof.” 

He went away then, quietly closing the door 
behind him, and I obeyed his behest and fell 
asleep again. Nor did I awake until the old 
man that I had seen by the kitchen fire the 
night before appeared in my room, bringing 
me hot water, shaving tackle, tea. He drew 
back curtains and blinds, and I saw that the 
sky was still grey and heavy. 

“More snow in the night?” I asked him. 

He started, as if unused to being spoken 
to, and nodded his old head. 

“Aye, there’ll have been a deal more 



The Second Stranger 29 

snow, master,” he answered. “Many feet 
deep it is all round the house.” 

I got up, drank the tea, made as careful a 
toilet as I could, and eventually went off to the 
room in the tower wherein I had spent the 
evening with my youthful hostess. It was so 
far untenanted, but there was a great fire of 
logs blazing in the big open hearth, and the 
breakfast table was laid before it; from the ad¬ 
jacent kitchen came highly appetizing odours. 
I warmed myself at the hearth, looking round; 
now, in the morning light, dull though it was, 
I could see the room better. It was easy to 
get from it an idea of its owner’s tastes—the 
beautiful old furniture, the panelling, the ar¬ 
rangement of the cabinets and their contents, 
all showed the inclination and love of the col¬ 
lector, who was also a good judge of what he 
collected. There were many things of great 
interest in that room—one struck me particu¬ 
larly, perhaps because the fire flames kept 
glinting sharply on its burnished front. This 
was a small copper box, a thing some six or 
seven inches square, which stood in the middle 
of the ancient sideboard, one out of many cu¬ 
rious articles placed there. I could see, from 


30 The Copper Box 

where I stood, that it was a bit of unusually 
good work, and I presently went closer and 
took it into my hands. Anything worked in 
old brass or copper had always appealed to 
me; this quaint little coffer, or chest, beauti¬ 
fully elegant in its severe simplicity, took my 
fancy. It was a plain thing throughout, ex¬ 
cept that on the lid was engraven a coat-of- 
arms, and on the scroll beneath it a legend— 

Thatte 1 please I wylle. 

I had just replaced the copper box and was 
turning away wondering what these words 
signified when I caught sight of something 
which I had certainly not expected to see. 
There, hung in two panels above the side¬ 
board, obscured in shadow the previous even¬ 
ing but plain enough now, as they faced the big 
window, hung two small pictures of my own, 
water-colour sketches of scenery in Teesdale 
which I had shown at the Royal Academy a 
year before and had subsequently sold to a 
Bond Street dealer. I was looking at them 
when Miss Durham came in, followed by the 
old woman and the breakfast dishes. 

Miss Durham and I shook hands solemnly. 


The Second Stranger 31 

Then we both smiled, and eventually laughed. 
She nodded at a door in the corner of the 
room. 

“Mr. Parslewe came after all,” she said. 

“I’m aware of it,” said I. “He came to see 
me—some time or other.” 

“No?” she exclaimed. “What for?” 

“Wanted to know if I’d enough blankets, 
I think,” I answered. 

“Oh, I hope you had!” she said. “Had you? 
But how-” 

Just then the door in the corner opened and 
my host entered. I saw then that he was a 
rather tall, loose-limbed man of probably fifty- 
five to sixty, with a remarkably intellectual 
face, sphinx-like in expression, and as I have 
already said, capable of looking almost fiend¬ 
ishly disagreeable or meltingly sweet. It was 
sweet enough now as he came forward, offer¬ 
ing me his hand with old-fashioned courtesy. 

“Good morning, master!” he cooed—no 
other word expresses his suavity of tone. “I 
trust you slept well and refreshingly after all 
your privations.” 

“My privations, sir, had been of short dura¬ 
tion, and their recompense full,” I replied, 




32 


The Copper Box 

imitating his half-chaffing tone. “I slept 
excellently well, thank you.” 

“Why, that’s a blessing!” he said, rubbing 
his hands. “So did I!” 

“It was very unkind of you, though, Jim¬ 
mie, to wake up a guest in the middle of the 
night,” said Miss Durham. “How inconsid¬ 
erate!” 

Mr. Parslewe motioned me to the breakfast 
table with a bow and a wave of his delicately 
fingered hand, and favoured his ward and my¬ 
self with one of his sweetest smiles. 

“Well, I don’t know, my dear,” he retorted. 
“He might have been a burglar!—you never 
can tell.” 

He laughed, with full enjoyment, at his 
own joke, and bent towards me as he handed 
me a plate. 

“I was sorry I woke you!” he said, still 
smiling. “I was enjoying looking at you. I 
thought I’d never seen such a refreshingly in¬ 
nocent young mortal in my life! In fact, I 
was just thinking of fetching Madrasia to look 
at you when you woke.” 

He laughed more than ever at this, and I 
glanced from him to his ward. 


The Second Stranger 33 

“Don’t mind him!” she said. “That’s his 
way. He possesses a curious form of humour 
—a very twisted form sometimes. You’re a 
queer man, Jimmie, aren’t you? And I gave 
you such a splendid character last night!— 
said that you’d have been furious if I hadn’t 
insisted on bringing Mr. Craye in, and lots 
more—didn’t I, Mr. Craye?” 

“Well, I’d certainly rather see him sitting 
there alive, eating his bacon, than dig him out 
of the snow, dead,” remarked Mr. Parslewe, 
good-humouredly. “But Craye, now—do you 
happen to be related to Craye, the landscape 
painter?” 

“I am Craye, the landscape painter, Mr. 
Parslewe,” I replied. “That’s why I’m in this 
neighbourhood. I was looking out all yester¬ 
day for a likely subject.” 

His face lighted up with genuine pleasure, 
and he stretched out his hand across the table 
and shook mine heartily. 

“Man!” he exclaimed, “I’m delighted to 
have you in my house! You’re a clever young 
fellow; I’ve admired your work ever since I 
was first privileged to see it. And bought it. 


34 The Copper Box 

too; there’s two water-colours of yours behind 
you there, and-” 

“I’ve seen them,” said I. 

“And I’ve two more upstairs in my study,” 
he continued. “Aye, well, I’m greatly 
pleased! And you’re staying in these parts?” 

“I came to the hotel at Wooler three days 
ago, just to look round the Cheviots,” I an¬ 
swered. 

“Any definite time?” he asked. 

“No,” said I. “I’m my own master as to 
that.” 

“Then when old Edie can get through the 
snow, we’ll just send across to Wooler for 
your things, and you’ll consider this house 
yours, Mr. Craye,” he said, with a nod of his 
head which implied that he would take no re¬ 
fusal. “Your very obedient servant, sir, as 
long as you like to stop in it!” 

“There!” exclaimed Miss Durham; “I knew 
you’d get on together like a house on fire! But 
perhaps Mr. Craye thinks he might be dull?” 

“Mr. Craye thinks nothing of the sort,” I 
retorted hastily. “He’s overwhelmed on all 
sides. You’re extremely kind, Mr. Parslewe; 
your sense of hospitality is princely.” 



The Second Stranger 35 

“Pooh, pooh!” he said. “We’ll just be glad. 
And there’s no need to be dull, my girl, when 
you’re about!” he added, nodding at his ward. 
“A lively damsel, this, Craye; the air of the 
hills is in her blood!” 

“Miss Durham, sir, is, I am sure, one of 
those admirable hostesses who could never let 
a guest be anything but happy,” I said, with 
a glance towards the object of my compliment. 
“And,” I added, more seriously, “I should be 
veiy ungrateful not to accept your kind invi¬ 
tation. I won’t let you get tired of me.” 

“Mr. Craye thinks he could paint a picture 
of the house, with the hills for a background, 
Jimmie,” remarked Miss Durham. “You’d 
buy that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Hoots, toots! We’ll see, woman, we’ll 
see!” answered Mr. Parslewe. “There’s finer 
subjects than this old place, but you’ll not see 
them to-day, my lad,” he added, turning to me. 
“The snow’s thick and deep all round our walls, 
and what you’ll see of the land for the next 
twenty-four hours, and maybe more, ’ll be 
from the top of our tower. And a grand ob¬ 
servation post it is, too!” 

He took me up the tower after breakfast’ 


36 The Copper Box 

was over. From the leads at its battlemented 
head there was a wonderful view of the sur¬ 
rounding country; he indicated the chief fea¬ 
tures as we stood there, looking out on the 
snow-clad expanse. And I saw then what I 
had not been able to see the night before, that 
this place, Kelpieshaw, was absolutely iso¬ 
lated; as far as I could see, on any side, there 
was not even a shepherd’s hut or gamekeep¬ 
er’s lodge in view. 

“You love solitude, Mr. Parslewe,” I re¬ 
marked as I looked about me. “This, surely, 
is solitude!” 

“Aye, it is!” he agreed. “And it suits me. 
What’s more to the purpose, it suits my ward 
—up to now, anyway. When I brought her 
from India, where she was born, I looked 
about for a likely place in this district. We 
came across this—half-ruinous it was then. 
I bought it, did it up, furnished it, got a lot 
of things here that I’d left stored in London 
when I first went to India, many a year ago, 
and settled down. The girl loves it—and so 
do I.” 

He gave me one of his half-serious, half- 
sardonic smiles, and we went down the stair 


The Second Stranger 37 

again, and into a big room, a floor aoove the 
parlour, wherein he kept his books and his col¬ 
lections. It was something of a cross between 
a museum and a library, and I could see that 
he was remarkably proud of the things in it. 
I saw, too, that my host was a man of means 
—only a well-to-do man could have afforded 
to bring together the things that he had there. 
Like all antiquaries he began to point out to 
me his chief treasures, and to talk about them, 
and finding that I had some knowledge of 
such things, to dig into old chests and presses 
in order to unearth others. Once, while he was 
thus engaged, I was looking at some small 
volumes bound in old calf which were ranged 
in one of the recesses; once more, on the side 
of one of these, in faded gilt, I came across the 
arms and legend which I had noticed on the 
copper box in the room below; he looked up 
from his task to find me regarding it. 

“An odd motto that, Mr. Parslewe,” I ob¬ 
served. “I noticed it on your old copper 
chest, or coffer, downstairs, ‘That I please, I 
will ! 5 What does it mean ?’ 5 He laughed 
satirically. 

“I should say it means that the folk who 


38 The Copper Box 

sported it were pretty much inclined to have 
their own way, my lad!” he answered. 
“Whether they got it or not is another ques¬ 
tion. Now, here’s a fifteenth-century Book 
of Hours, with the illuminations as fresh as 
when they were done. Look you there for a 
bit of fine work!”, 

I had meant to ask him whose coat-of-arms 
and whose legend it was that had excited my 
curiosity, but I saw that the subject either 
possessed no interest for him or that he didn’t 
want to be questioned about it, and I turned 
to what he was showing me. We spent most 
of that morning examining his collection, and 
we got on together admirably. Still, I was 
not Sony when Miss Durham appeared and 
insisted on dragging me away from him to go 
out with her into the courtyard to inspect her 
horse, her dogs, and other live creatures. The 
old man had cleared much of the courtyard of 
snow, but beyond its walls the drifts were 
deep. From the gate I looked across them 
with a certain amount of impatience—I 
wanted to see more of the country, and I had 
notions that Miss Durham might not be un¬ 
willing to act as guide to it. 



The Second Stranger 39 

“Don’t think you’re going to be a prisoner 
for very long,” she suddenly remarked, inter¬ 
preting my silent contemplation of the vast 
waste of whiteness. “At this time of the year 
the snow goes quickly. You needn’t be sur¬ 
prised if you find it vanished when you wake 
to-morrow, thick as it is.” 

“If it is, and we can get out, you’ll show me 
some of your favourite scenes?” I suggested. 
“I could make a sketch or two.” 

“Of course!” she assented. “There’s a lovely 
bit along the road towards Roddam. I’ll take 
you there as soon as the snow’s gone; you’ll 
be ravished with it!” 

We had three days’ wait for that, and dur¬ 
ing that time, as if they felt themselves bound 
to compensate me for the delay, my host and 
hostess did all they could to?amuse and inter¬ 
est me, though, to tell the truth, I was inter¬ 
ested enough in them personally, and needed 
no other diversion. Mr. Parslewe was cer¬ 
tainly a character, full of eccentricities, with a 
strong sense of humour, and a mordant wit; 
he had evidently seen much of men and of 
the world, and his comments on things in 
general were as interesting as they were 


40 The Copper Box 

amusing. I made out, however, that his 
knowledge of our own country and our own 
period was considerably out cf date; he ap¬ 
peared to know little of present-day affairs, 
thou^n he had a fine old store of anecdotes of a 
previous generation. But a chance remark of 
his accounted for this. 

“I left England for India and the East 
when I was twenty-one,” he said to me one 
evening in casual conversation, “and I never 
saw its shores again until I’d turned fifty. 
And now that I’m back—and some years, too 
—I don’t want to see any more of it than I 
can see from the top of my dear old tower! 
Here I am, and here I stick!” 

I wondered if he meant his young and 
pretty ward to stick there, too—but those 
were early days to put the question to him. 
Still, by that time I had fallen in love with 
Madrasia; it would have been a most un¬ 
heard-of thing if I hadn’t! And already I 
meant to move all the powers that are in 
heaven and earth to win her—for which rea¬ 
son I was devoutly thankful when, on the 
fourth day of my stay, winter suddenly dis¬ 
appeared as if by magic, and springtide again 



The Second Stranger 41 

asserted itself and flooded the hills and valleys 
with warmth and sunshine. For then she and 
I got out of the old house, leaving Mr. Pars- 
lewe with his books and papers, and began to 
wander abroad, improving our acquaintance 
—very pleasantly and successfully. There 
had been a comforting air of romance about 
our meeting which, I think, appealed to both 
of us; it was still there, making an atmosphere 
around us, and now the elements of a most 
puzzling and curious mystery were to be 
added to it. 

Those elements were first introduced by a 
man who came along the road leading frqm 
Wooperton and Roddam, and chanced to find 
Madrasia and myself sitting on a shelf of rock 
by its side, I doing a bit of perfunctory 
sketching, and she watching me. He was a 
tourist-looking sort of man; that is to say, he 
wore the sort of garments affected by tour¬ 
ists; otherwise, I should have said that he was 
perhaps a commercial traveller, or a well-to- 
do tradesman who loved country walks—a big¬ 
gish, well-fed, florid-faced man, shrewd of eye, 
and, as we presently discovered, very polite— 
too polite—of manner. He regarded us 


42 The Copper Box 

closely as he came up, and when he was abreast 
of us, he stopped in the centre of the road and 
lifted his cap; it was the latest thing in head- 
gear of that sort, and he raised it with some¬ 
thing of a flourish. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, with a depre¬ 
cating, ingratiating smile. “Can you tell me 
if, somewhere in this neighbourhood, there is 
a house called Kelpieshaw?” 

It was Madrasia who answered—promptly. 

“Two miles ahead, along the valley,” she 
said. “Can’t miss it.” 

The man bowed, and smiled again; a little 
too obsequiously, I thought. 

“The residence of, I believe—er, Mr. Pars- 
lewe?” he suggested. “Mr. James Parslewe.” 

“Mr. Parslewe lives there,” assented Ma¬ 
drasia. “Want him?” 

He smiled again—enigmatically this time. 

“I hope to have the pleasure of waiting 
upon Mr. Parslewe—and of finding him at 
home,” he answered. “Er—Mr. Parslewe, I 
believe—perhaps you are acquainted with 
him?—is a gentleman learned in—er, antiqui¬ 
ties—and that sort of thing?” 




The Second Stranger 43 

“He is a bit inclined that way,” replied 
Madrasia, almost flippantly. “Are you?” 

He waved his hand, shelving away from us. 

“A neophyte—a mere neophyte,” he said, 
still smiling. “A— -er, learner!” 

He strode off up the valley: we looked after 
him meditatively. 

“Don’t like the looks of that person,” said 
Madrasia, suddenly. 

“Neither do I—though I don’t know why,” 
I answered. “Case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. 
Bit too given to smiling readily, eh?” 

“Oily!” said Madrasia. “Wonder who he 
is—and what he’s after?” 

“Doesn’t look like a dry-as-dust antiquary, 
anyhow,” I remarked. 

But whatever the man looked like, we found 
him with Parslewe when we went home—one 
on each side of the parlour fire. And Pars¬ 
lewe introduced him, unceremoniously—Mr. 
Pawley. 














Ill 


Copper 

"jV/TR. PAWLEY, who looked very com- 
fortable in an easy chair, with a glass 
of whisky and soda conveniently at hand, 
smiled upon us as if we were old acquaint¬ 
ances. He was clearly one of those gentle¬ 
men who speedily make themselves at home 
anywhere, and, as it presently appeared, are 
by no means backward in the art of finding 
things out. Indeed, he at once began to put 
leading questions. 

“Your daughter, I presume, sir?” he sug¬ 
gested, with a glance at Madrasia. 

“Not a bit of it!” answered Parslewe, in his 
most off-hand manner. “My ward.” 

“Dear me, sir! now I could have thought 
that I saw a distinct family resemblance,” 
said Mr. Pawley. “This young gentleman, 
perhaps-” 

“Visitor of mine,” replied Parslewe. “Mr. 

Craye—a well-known artist.” 

45 



46 The Copper Box 

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” murmured Mr. 
Pawley. “I observed that you were doing 
something in your line when I saw you and 
Miss—I didn’t catch the young lady’s name, 
I think—Miss-?” 

“Durham!” said Parslewe. “Durham!” 

“Just so, sir—Miss Durham. Ah!—and a 
very pleasant country this is, Mr. Craye, for 
your form of art—and very delightful quar¬ 
ters, I’m sure,” added Mr. Pawley, with a 
bow towards our host. “And you were say¬ 
ing, Mr. Parslewe-?” 

Madrasia, with an odd glance at me, went 
out of the room, and Parslewe, who, I thought, 
already looked bored to death by his visitor, 
turned to him. 

“I was saying that if you’re really inter¬ 
ested in that sort of thing—barrows and stone 
circles and so on, I’m scarcely the man to come 
to,” he said. “My tastes lie more chiefly in 
books. If you’re going to stay in the district 
a while, I can give you a list of titles of books 
—local and otherwise—that you can read up. 
I think you’d find all of them in the various 
libraries at Newcastle.” 

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Parslewe, 





C opper 47 

I’m sure,” replied Mr. Pawley. “I should 
value that, sir.” 

Parslewe rose from his chair and left the 
room. I heard him climb the stair to his 
library n the next floor of the tower. Mr. 
Pawley looked at me. It was a peculiarly 
scrutinising, appraising glance—it gave me an 
idea that the man was wondering how much 
he could get out of me in the way of informa¬ 
tion. 

“A very clever and learned gentleman, Mr. 
Parslewe,” he observed. “Uncommon!” 

“I agree!” said I. 

“Makes a man like me—just beginning to 
take an interest in these things, do you see— 
feel that he knows—ah, nothing!” he said. 

“I quite understand you,” I assented. 

“And what a—yes, you might call it—wealth 
of curiosities he’s gathered about him,” he con¬ 
tinued. “Odds and ends of all sorts. Now, 
there’s an object that’s attracted my atten¬ 
tion—a very pretty article!” 

He rose suddenly, and walking across to the 
sideboard, picked up the copper box, holding 
it to the light, and examining it with exagger¬ 
ated admiration. 



48 The Copper Box 

“Beautiful bit of work, Mr.—Craye, I 
think—beautiful!” he said, unctuously. “Not 
made yesterday, that, sir. Old coat-of-arms, 
you see, and a motto. Um! You don’t hap¬ 
pen to know whose family coat-of-arms that 
is, Mr. Craye?” 

“No, I don’t,” said I. “Do you?” 

“No, sir, no! as I remarked—when I saw 
you and the young lady down the road—I’m 
a learner, a novice, a neophyte, Mr. Craye,” 
he replied. “Fine coat-of-arms, though, that 
—and a peculiar motto. Now what would 
you take those words to signify, Mr. Craye?” 

Before I could reply, we heard Parslewe 
coming back, and Mr. Pawley hastily put 
down the copper box and retreated to his 
chair, for all the world as if he had been 
caught or been about to be caught in the act 
of stealing something. 

“These antiquaries!” he murmured, with 
a cautioning wink at me, “I know ’em!—they 
don’t like their treasures handled. Precious! 
Old pots—worth sixpence to some people— 
worth their weight in gold, to them. Just 
so!” 

Parslewe came into the room with a 


C opper 49 

sheet of notepaper in his hand; Mr. Pawley 
received it with gratitude as exaggerated as 
his admiration of the copper box. And pres¬ 
ently he said that he must now be moving; I 
am sure it was with a desire to speed his de¬ 
parture that Parslewe offered to show him 
down the stair and to point out a short cut 
across the moor. So they vanished, and when 
Parslewe came back the tea-tray had just been 
brought in and Madrasia was busy at it. She 
turned on her guardian as he entered. 

“Jimmie!” she exclaimed. “Who on earth 
was that creature?” 

Parslewe laughed as he dropped into his 
favourite chair. 

“No more idea than you have, my dear!” 
he answered. “Introduced himself as a 
humble fellow-labourer in the same field, in 
which—so he said—I’m a past master. Said 
he was holidaying in the neighbourhood, and 
had heard of me, so ventured to call and see 
me. Wanted to know if there were any 
objects worthy of his attention round about 
here—sepulchral things and so on. The odd 
thing,” continued Parslewe, with one of his 
sardonic laughs, “the very odd thing was that 



50 The Copper Box 

I never saw a man who looked less like an 
antiquary in my life!” 

“Or talked less like one, I should think,” 
suggested Madrasia. 

“Oh, he’d picked up a few cant phrases, 
somewhere or other,” observed Parslewe. 

“He told me that he’d turned to this sort of 
thing, as he called it, for a hobby—a man, he 
observed, with the air of one uttering a hither- 
to-undiscovered truth, must have something 
to do. Ha-hah-hah!” 

“He seems to have amused you, anyway,” 
remarked Madrasia. 

“Aye!—why not?” assented Parslewe. 
“Of course he did; I thought he looked much 
more at home with a glass in his hand and a 
pipe in his mouth than he would amongst 
either books or barrows.” 

“Well, really, I wondered whatever brought 
him here!” said Madrasia. “A neophyte, in¬ 
deed!—in loud tweeds and a glaring necktie. 
I thought he was a sporting publican out for 
a walk.” 

I did not say what I thought. The fact 
was I had some queer suspicions about Mr. 
Pawley. I had noticed his odd, shrewd, 


Copper 51 

examining glances; he looked to me like a 
man who has an object, a mission; who is 
spying out the land; endeavouring to get at 
a discovery. That he had some purpose in 
view I was sure, but I said nothing to Parslewe 
and Madrasia. Just then we had a more 
pertinent and interesting matter to discuss. 

Parslewe wanted me to stay there a while 
and to paint a landscape for him. He had 
a favourite view, near the house, and was 
keenly anxious that somebody should do jus¬ 
tice to it—moreover, he wanted the picture to 
he painted in the freshness of springtide, 
though my own private inclination would have 
led me to paint it in the autumn. And he had 
offered me a handsome price for it, agreeing, 
too, that I should be allowed to submit it for 
the next Royal Academy exhibition. I was 
by no means unwilling to accept his offer, for 
apart from the advantages of the commission, 
the work meant spending at least a month or 
six weeks at Kelpieshaw—in the society of 
Madrasia. And I had already fallen in love 
with Madrasia. 

We settled the affair of the picture over 
that tea-table. I decided to start on it at once^ 



52 The Copper Box 

and the first thing then was to get a suitable 
canvas. Parslewe said I should be sure to 
find one in Newcastle, and I arranged to 
journey there next day, seek out an artist’s 
colourman, and buy what I wanted. On this 
errand I was in Newcastle about noon on the 
following morning, and the first person I saw 
there was our recent visitor, the somewhat 
mysterious Mr. Pawley. 

Mr. Pawley did not see me. I caught 
sight of him by accident, but, having seen 
him, I made it my business to watch him a 
little. He stood at the exit of one of the 
arrival platforms, and he was absorbed in 
looking for somebody or other. An express 
came in from the south; its passengers began 
to stream through the exit; presently Mr. 
Pawley—who was still attired as when I had 
last seen him—removed his cap and bowed 
with sincere obsequiousness. The object of 
his reverence was an elderly, big-framed, very 
consequential-looking man, whose large face 
was ornamented by a pair of old-fashioned 
whiskers, and who, in my opinion, had family 
solicitor written big all over himself and his 
attire, from his silk hat to his stout-soled, 


C opper 53 

gaitered, square-toed boots. That he was a 
person of much greater importance than Mr. 
Pawley was very evident from the fact that 
he replied to Mr. Pawley’s obsequious greet¬ 
ing with a mere condescending nod, and at 
once resigned into his hands a Gladstone bag 
and a travelling rug. There was an inter¬ 
change of brief remarks between the two— 
then they marched across the platform to 
the hotel and vanished within its portals, the 
large man going first, and Mr. Pawley play¬ 
ing porter behind. 

My curiosity had been aroused so keenly 
by that time that I had some absurd notion 
of following Pawley and the white-whiskered 
person into the hotel, just to see if I could 
find out a little more about their mutual 
relation. But on reflection I went off about 
my own business. Having some knowledge 
of Newcastle, I walked up town to a cer¬ 
tain restaurant of which I knew and highly 
approved; there I lunched and idled an hour 
away afterwards. After that I set out in 
quest of a firm whose name Parslewe had 
given me. Its manager had not got a canvas 
of the precise size I wanted, but he promised 


54 The Copper Box 

to make me one by noon of the following 
day, and I accordingly decided to stay in 
Newcastle for the night, and, later, went to 
Ihe hotel at the station to book a room. In the 
smoking-room there, writing letters, was 
the white-whiskered person. Pawley was not 
with him. Nor was Pawley with him when, 
after dinner that evening, he came into the 
smoking-room again and took a chair close 
by my own in a comfortable comer. But 
now he was not alone; he came in company 
with a younger man, a middle-aged, sharp- 
eyed individual whom I also set down as 
having some connection with the law. 

These two men had evidently just dined; 
a waiter brought them coffee and liqueurs; the 
elder man produced a cigar-case and offered 
it to his companion. They began to talk; 
sometimes quite audibly, at others, sinking 
their voices to whisperings. But they had 
scarcely lighted their cigars before a word or 
two from the white-whiskered man made me 
prick my ears. 

“Without doubt!” he said. “Without any 
doubt, the copper box—its presence there 
—the coat-of-arms—the odd legend on the 


C opper 55 

scroll—is a most valuable piece of evidence! 
As soon as I heard of it-” 

He bent nearer to his companion, and for 
a minute or two I failed to catch what he was 
saying. Out of my eye-corners, however, I 
could see that the younger man was listen¬ 
ing, attentively and approvingly; from time 
to time he nodded his head as if in assent. 
Eventually he spoke. 

“And you say that Pawley, in his opinion, 
took him to be of about that age?” he 
asked. 

“That, of course, has to be considered.” 

“Pawley is an observant fellow,” remarked 
the elder man. “I have employed Pawley 
on several occasions, and with excellent re¬ 
sults. I can trust Pawley’s estimate of the 
age. It fits in exactly!” 

The younger man regarded his cigar 
thoughtfully for a while. 

“Odd!” he said at last. “Very odd! But 
I should say it is so!” 

“I don’t think there’s any doubt of it,” 
answered the white-whiskered person. “At 
any rate, I am not going to travel all this way, 
and back again, without making sure. I shall 



56 The Copper Box 

not be deceived!” he added with strong 
emphasis on the personal pronoun, accom¬ 
panied by a complacent chuckle. “Even a 
point-blank denial would not satisfy me! No 
dust will be thrown in my eyes!” 

“You were fully acquainted with the cir¬ 
cumstances of thirty years ago?” questioned 
the other. “Personally, I mean?” 

“Fully! Thirty-five years ago, to be exact. 
He—if it is so—is now fifty-six years 
of age. Oh, yes, I knew everything, was 
concerned in everything,” affirmed the elder 
man. 

“Up to a certain point, you know, up to a 
certain point. Now, if I can only get at close 
quarters, and Pawley assures me that’s by no 
means difficult, I can satisfy myself rather 
cleverly. For instance-” 

Once more he leaned nearer to his com¬ 
panion and lowered his voice; the conversa¬ 
tion tailed off into whisperings. And now, 
fearful lest I should in any way betray myself, 
I rose from my chair, left their neighbourhood, 
and under pretence of looking at the evening 
newspapers spread out on a centre table, went 
across to another part of the room. I picked 




C opper 57 

up a paper and sat down, affecting to look at 
it. But in reality, I was still watching the 
two men, and wondering what it was that they 
were talking about. 

For without doubt it had to do with 
my host, Parslewe. The references to the 
copper box, to the coat-of-arms engraved on 
it, to the curiously worded motto appearing 
on the scroll beneath, all that meant Parslewe. 
Pawley, again; whom had Pawley been visit¬ 
ing but Parslewe? And Pawley’s estimate, 
so much valued by White Whiskers, that was, 
of course, in relation to the age of Parslewe. 
It was all Parslewe, and it didn’t require 
much thought or reflection or analysis on my 
part to decide that about and around Parslewe 
hung a decided mysterj^. 

But of what nature? It seemed to me, 
judging him by my short yet very intimate 
acquaintanceship, that Parslewe was a de¬ 
cidedly frank and candid man. He had told 
me a good deal about himself. He had left 
England as a very young man, gone East, 
settled down in Madras, gone into partnership 
there with another Englishman, Madrasia’s 
father, trading in cotton and indigo, made a 


58 The Copper Box 

big fortune, and, on the death of his partner 
and his partner’s wife, had brought Madrasia 
to England, to settle down as I had found 
them. All that seemed a plain and straight 
story, with nothing remarkable or mysterious 
about it. What, then, were these men after? 
For there was no doubt in my mind now that 
Pawley had come to Kelpieshaw as a spy, 
seeking some particular information, and evi¬ 
dently getting what he wanted in an inspec¬ 
tion of Parslewe and an examination of the 
copper box. 

That copper box began to assume a sinister 
significance in my thoughts of it and its rela¬ 
tion to this affair. But what was its relation? 
It was a box, and it was made of copper. 
Beautifully made, to be sure, and by some 
man who had taken vast artistic pride in his 
work; the engraving of the coat-of-arms, too, 
was beautifully done. But, after all, it was 
only a copper box! What was there about 
it, then, or appertaining to it, that made these 
men, if not exactly keen about it, at any rate 
remarkably interested in the mere fact of its 
existence ? 

I saw no more of the two men in the smok- 


C opper 59 

ing-room that night, except that I caught a 
glimpse of White Whiskers, as I had come 
to call him, going bedward at the same time 
as myself, and on my corridor. I saw him 
again next morning, in the coffee-room, at 
breakfast; he looked bigger, more solemn 
and judicial than ever. But no Pawley came 
to him; I wondered what had become of 
Pawley. Perhaps he had gone back to sneak 
round Kelpieshaw again—anyway, I myself 
was going back there as soon as my canvas 
was ready. And I had already made up my 
mind that when I got there I should tell 
Parslewe that at Newcastle there were people 
talking about him and his copper box. 

The man who was making my canvas had 
his shop in a side street off Haymarket; I 
set off to it a little before noon, intending to 
get my parcel, return to the station, and 
depart for Wooler. But half-way up Percy 
Street I suddenly saw White Whiskers, a 
little way in front of me. With him was the 
man with whom I had seen him in conver¬ 
sation the night before. Once more they 
were in conversation; it seemed to be earnest 
and intense, judging by their attitude; White 


60 The Copper Box 

Whiskers had his arm linked in that of his 
companion, to whom he bent, confidently; 
the other listened with rapt attention. Out 
of sheer curiosity I followed them. They 
turned, eventually, into St. Thomas Street, 
and then began to look at the names over 
the shops. Finally, White Whiskers raised 
his umbrella and pointed to a sign; a moment 
later they entered the shop beneath it. And 
from a little distance I saw what was on the 
sign: Bickebdaue, Whitesmith and Cop¬ 
persmith. 

Copper again! copper box, coppersmith— 
the whole thing was becoming more mysteri¬ 
ous than ever! Here were these men, who 
had been talking about a copper box the 
night before, now entering the shop of a man 
who worked in copper. Why? I wanted to 
know. And instead of going off on my own 
proper business to the artist’s colourman’s 
shop, I crossed the street, walked on a little, 
turned, and kept an eye on the door into 
which White Whiskers and his companion 
had vanished. 

They were in there about half-an-hour. 
I stuck to my post, though I knew I was 


C opper 61 

running the risk of losing my train. At last 
they came out. They came nodding and 
wagging their heads as if whatever had 
transpired within had settled the question— 
White Whiskers, in particular, looked un¬ 
commonly satisfied with himself. They went 
away, round the corner into the Haymarket 
—and thereupon, with a desperate resolu¬ 
tion generated by sheer curiosity, I boldly 
entered the coppersmith’s establishment. Its 
proprietor, an uncomfortably canny-looking 
sort of person, elderly and spectacled, stood 
behind the counter; his keen eyes fell upon 
me at once with such shrewd inquiry that 
I felt decidedly embarrassed, and knew 
myself to be growing red about cheeks 
and ears. 

“Oh, ah, er,” I began lamely. “I—that is 
—have you any old articles in copper, you 
know—curiosities and that sort of thing—to 
sell?” 

It seemed to me that he took an unconscion¬ 
able time in replying. When he did reply, it 
was with a curt monosyllable. 

“No!” 



62 


The Copper Box 

“The fact is I—sometimes —go in for 
collecting such things,” I said. “I-” 

He suddenly bent forward across his 
counter, and gave me a keen, searching look. 

“What are you after, young man?” he 
asked severely. “I saw you—watching those 
gentlemen.” 



IV 


Midnight Warning 

1 GLANCED round, involuntarily, at the 
window of the man’s shop, and saw that, 
there being little in it, he would certainly 
have been able, while talking to White 
Whiskers and his companion, to command 
a view of the other side of the street, and so 
had doubtless seen me hanging about. But 
his curt manner helped to disperse my em¬ 
barrassment and awkwardness, and I boldly 
took another line. After all, I had—as far 
as I knew—as good a right to ask questions 
as White Whiskers had. 

“Well, supposing I was watching them?” 
I retorted. “I may have had a good reason, 
and very good reason! What do you say 
to that?” 

He began to shift about the things on his 
counter, aimlessly. I remained watching 
him. Suddenly he looked up, nervously, but 
defiantly. 


63 


64 The Copper Box 

“You’re not going to get anything out of 
me!” he said. “I’ve said my say already, 
and I’ve been warned against such as you.” 
Then he assumed a sneering look and tone. 
“Old copper articles!” he flung at me. “You 
should think shame of yourself coming in on a 
man with false excuses like that!” 

I saw now that there was something, and I 
gave him a thrust that was intended to go 
right home. 

“Copper is a good word!” said I. “And I 
wonder if you’ve ever seen or handled an old 
copper box, a few inches square, with a coat- 
of-arms engraved on it, and an unusual motto 
beneath that? Come, now!” 

He stood straight up at that, and I knew 
that he had seen such a thing, and that the 
two men who had just gone had been at him 
about it. And having made this discovery, 
and without another word, I turned on my 
heel and went swiftly out of the shop, leaving 
him staring after me. 

But if he was bewildered, so was I. What 
on earth was all this mystery, plainly cen¬ 
tring round Parslewe and his copper box? I 
had walked up the street, turned a corner, and 


Midnight Warning 65 

gone far down another street before I remem¬ 
bered my canvas and my train. I turned 
back, got the canvas, and made for the hotel 
and the station. And of course, through pok¬ 
ing my nose into other people’s affairs, I had 
missed the train to Alnwick and Wooler, and 
there wasn’t another until late in the after¬ 
noon. So I lunched in the hotel, and idled the 
time away there—chiefly wondering about this 
thing. Parslewe—Pawley—White Whiskers 
—the coppersmith—and that infernal copper 
box in the middle of them! What was the 
mystery attached to them and it? Was it 
fraud?—was it some matter of felony?—was it 
murder? I was going to tell Parslewe what I 
had discovered, anyway, and as quickly as pos¬ 
sible. But I had to cool my heels until be¬ 
tween five and six o’clock, and when at last I 
walked out on the platform to my train I saw 
White Whiskers standing at the door of a 
first-class carriage talking to the man who had 
gone with him to the coppersmith’s shop. 
White Whiskers had his bag and his rug in 
the carriage; I glimpsed them as I passed— 
evidently, he was going northward by my 


66 The Copper Box 

train, and was, of course, on his way to Kel- 
pieshaw. 

I had one of the hotel porters with me, car¬ 
rying my bag and my canvas, and when he 
had found me a seat I engaged his attention. 

“There are two gentlemen standing at the 
door of a first-class compartment up there,” 
I said. “Do you happen to know who they 
are?” 

The man looked, and nodded. 

“Don’t know the older gentleman, sir,” he 
replied. “He stopped at the hotel last night, 
but I didn’t hear his name mentioned. The 
other gentleman’s Mr. Pebling, sir.” 

“And who,” I asked, “is Mr. Pebling?” 

“Lawyer, sir—well-known lawyer in the 
town,” he answered. “Pebling, Spilsby and 
Pebling, solicitors—Grey Street. Everybody 
knows him.” 

Accordingly, I departed for Kelpieshaw in 
an atmosphere of Law and Mystery—I im¬ 
agined that atmosphere centring thickly 
around White Whiskers in his first-class com¬ 
partment (I, as a matter of principle rather 
than pence, travelled third) and mingling with 
the smoke of his very excellent cigars. I 


Midnight Warning 67 

would have given a good deal to pick the 
brains that lay behind his big, solemn, conse¬ 
quential countenance, but I knew that I 
should probably hear much on the morrow. 
For that he was bound for Kelpieshaw I had 
no more doubt than that our train was a slow 
one. 

It was late when we got to Wooler—so 
late that I had already decided to spend the 
night there and go on to Parslewe’s in the 
early morning. I had some notion, too, that 
White Whiskers would, of course, repair to 
the principal hotel, whither I was also bound, 
and that there I might find out a little more 
about him—perhaps even get into conversa¬ 
tion with him; from what I had seen of him at 
Newcastle, I judged him to be a talkative 
man, and at Wooler he would have small 
chance of indulging his propensities. Now if 
I could only foregather with him over a smok¬ 
ing-room fire- 

But no sooner had the train come to a halt 
in Wooler station than I saw that White 
Whiskers was expected, and was met. He 
was met, and very politely—almost reverently 
—received by a tall military-looking man in a 



68 


The Copper Box 

smart, dark uniform, braided and buttoned, 
who appeared to consider it an honour when 
White Whiskers—as I saw plainly—ex¬ 
tended two fingers to him. They conversed 
for a minute or two; then, talking confiden¬ 
tially, as it appeared, they set off together. 
And being just behind them as they left the 
station, I indulged in more inquisitiveness. 

“Who is that in the dark uniform?” I in¬ 
quired of the clerk who was collecting the 
tickets at the entrance. 

“Mr. Hilgrave,” he answered, promptly. 
“Inspector of police. Nice gentleman!—not 
been here so very long, though.” 

I went on to the hotel, wondering what on 
earth White Whiskers wanted with the local 
police inspector. And upon getting into the 
hotel, I found them together. White Whiskers 
w r as just beginning a belated dinner in the 
coffee-room; Hilgrave sat with him, refresh¬ 
ing himself with a whisky-and-soda, and lis¬ 
tening with apparent deep interest to his talk. 
I got some warmed-up dinner myself, but I 
did not overhear anything that was said be¬ 
tween the two. The conversation seemed to 
be chiefly one-sided; White Whiskers evi- 


Midnight Warning 69 

dently explaining and detailing, and the po¬ 
lice inspector nodding his comprehension. But 
towards the close of this episode I got some 
information. White Whiskers, bringing his 
dinner to an end, summoned the waiter and 
gave him some audible commands. He must 
be called, with hot water and tea, at seven 
o’clock in the morning. Breakfast must be 
ready for him at precisely eight—sharp to the 
minute. And at nine o’clock the best car in 
the place must be at the door to take him to 
Kelpieshaw. How far away was this Kelpie- 
shaw?—nine or ten miles by the road? Very 
good!—then nine o’clock, precisely. 

These things settled, White Whiskers 
turned to Hilgrave, bland and affable. 

“Well,” he said, now speaking in quite 
audible accents, the occasion for secrecy hav¬ 
ing evidently passed, “what do you say to a 
cigar?—I suppose there’s a smoking-room 
here?” 

“Very kind of you, Sir Charles,” replied the 
inspector. “Smoking-room just across the 
hall.” 

When they had gone away, I thought things 
over—rapidly. It was then close upon ten 




70 The Copper Box 

o’clock, and I already knew sufficient of the 
domestic habits of Kelpieshaw as to know that 
they kept early hours there. But I felt, more 
from instinct than anything, that Parslewe 
ought to be put in possession of my news, and 
that I ought not to leave the imparting of it 
until next morning, however early. So going 
out into the hall, I got hold of the boots, and, 
taking him aside, made inquiries about my 
chances of getting a car, late as it was. He 
got one for me—with considerable delay and 
difficulty—but I took good care not to let him 
nor its driver know where I was going until 
I had got clear of the hotel. 

The last stage of the I'oad to Kelpieshaw 
was of such a nature that a car could do no 
more than crawl over it, and it was nearly 
midnight when I saw the tower of the old 
house standing dark and spectral against a 
moonlit sky. As I expected, there was not a 
light to be seen in any of the windows, not 
even in those of the upper part of the tower 
wherein Parslewe had his library. I felt very 
lonely when the car had driven off, leaving 
me in the solitude of the wind-swept court¬ 
yard. knocked on the turret door several 



Midnight Warning 71 

times without getting any response, and know¬ 
ing the thickness of the walls and doors as I 
did, I began to fear that no summons of mine 
would be heard, and that I should have to 
camp out in one of the buildings. But my 
knocking roused the dogs; they set up a great 
barking, and at that a window opened, and 
Tibbie Muir’s voice, wrathful enough, de¬ 
manded to know what ill body was below. 

“Don’t be angry, Tibbie,” I called. “It’s 
I, Mr. Craye. Tell your master I’m back, 
and let me in.” 

It was Parslewe himself who presently came 
down. He seemed in no way surprised, and 
he treated me to one of his sardonic grins. 

“Well, young master?” he said, holding up 
his lamp and giving me a careful inspection 
as I stepped within. “You look a bit way¬ 
worn!” Then, in his eccentric, jocular fash¬ 
ion, and as he bolted and locked the big door 
behind me, he began to spout, dramatically:— 

“ ‘Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless. 

So dull, so dead, so woe-begone. 

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night. 

And would have told him half his Troy was burn’d!’ 

“But go up, Craye, my lad, and we’ll see 
if a drop of whisky’ll revive you!” 


72 The Copper Box 

He laughed again and pushed me up the 
stair; I went, willingly. 

“Mr. Parslewe!” said I. ‘Tm neither dull, 
nor dead, nor woe-begone, but I am cold, for 
the night’s bitter, and that miserable old car 
I got is a trap for draughts. And as to Priam 
and Troy, I’ve a tale to tell you that beats 
that!” 

“Aye?” he said. “Well, a midnight tale is 
generally one that’s worth hearing. And if 
you’re cold, I believe there’s a bit of fire burn¬ 
ing, and we’ll soon improve it. But-” 

We were at the head of the stair by then, 
and Madrasia suddenly called from her room. 

“Jimmie!—is that him?” she demanded, 
careless of grammar in her eagerness. “And 
what’s he after at this time?” 

“Aye, it’s me!” I called out, catching at her 
spirit. “And I’m safe and sound, too, with a 
pack of adventures-” 

“That’ll keep till morning,” interrupted 
Parslewe, pushing me into the room. “Go to 
sleep again, my girl!” He shut the door on 
us, drew the heavy curtain across it, and after 
poking up the fire and lighting the lamp, 
helped us both to whisky from the decanter 




Midnight Warning 73 

and lighted his pipe. “Aye, and what’s the 
tale, Craye?” he asked. 

I had been considering the telling of that all 
the way from Wooler—debating the best way 
of putting the various episodes before him. 
It seemed to me that the best fashion was one 
of consecutive narrative, leaving him to draw 
his own inferences and conclusions. So I be¬ 
gan at the beginning, which was, of course, at 
the point where I first saw Pawley awaiting 
the arrival of the train from the south. I 
watched him carefully as I told the story, be¬ 
ing anxious to see how it struck him and how 
things that had impressed me impressed him. 
And as I went on from one stage to another 
I was conscious of a curious, half-humorous, 
half-cynical imperturbability about him; his 
face remained mask-like, except for a sly 
gleam in his expressive eyes, and he never 
betrayed any sign of being surprised or star¬ 
tled but once, when his lips moved a little at 
the first mention of the copper box. And 
twice he smiled and nodded his head slightly— 
the first time was when I mentioned the cop¬ 
persmith’s shop, whereat he stirred a bit and 
said softly, “Aye, that would be old Bicker- 


74 The Copper Box 

dale!” and the second when I said that the 
police inspector had addressed White Whis¬ 
kers as Sir Charles. He laughed outright at 
that. 

“Aye, likely enough,” he muttered. “He’s 
the sort that would turn out Sir Charles, for 
sure! But I hadn’t heard of it.” 

“That’s the lot, Mr. Parslewe,” I con¬ 
cluded. “I left Sir Charles and the police 
inspector smoking their cigars and drinking 
their whisky. I saw them through the open 
door of the smoking-room, and they were hob¬ 
nobbing comfortably enough. And then I 
raced through the night—to tell you!” 

“Aye!” he said. “But to tell me—what?” 

“What I have told you,” I replied. 

He gave me a queer, questioning look. 

“Sounds very mysterious, my lad, eh!” he 
said. 

“To me—uncommonly so!” said I. 

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then 
took a pull at his glass. 

“You’ve no doubt amused yourself with 
theories about it?” he suggested. 

“No!” I retorted. “It’s too deep for theo- 



Midnight Warning 75 

ries, Mr. Parslewe. Too deep for me to 
theorise about, I mean.” 

“Aye—well, we’ll say speculate, then, in¬ 
stead of theorise,” he remarked, drily. “You’ve 
indulged in speculations?” 

I pointed towards the sideboard behind him. 

“I’ve certainly been wondering what on 
earth that copper box has to do with it!” said 
I. “Here’s a fat, solemn, self-important old 
buffer travels—possibly all the way from 
London—to talk about a copper box in a New¬ 
castle hotel! A Newcastle shopkeeper starts 
with surprise when I mention a copper box to 
him! And there—with the firelight glinting 
on it—there is the copper box!” 

“Aye!” he said. “Aye, there it is—and 
there it’ll remain, master!” He closed his lips 
in a tight, firm fashion that I had already 
come to know very well, in spite of our brief 
acquaintance, and when he relaxed them again 
it was to smile in his sweetest fashion. “But 
that doesn’t explain anything, Craye, does 
it?” he remarked. 

“Explains nothing—to me,” I assented. 

He got up, threw two or three small logs 
of wood on the fire, and standing with his 




76 The Copper Box 

back to it, thrust his hands in the pockets of 
his dressing-gown. He puffed at his big pipe 
for a while, staring across the shadowy cor¬ 
ners of the room, and suddenly he laughed. 

“You can tell all that to Madrasia in the 
morning,” he said. “It’ll amuse her.” 

“Mystify her, you mean!” I said. 

“Well, both, then—they come to the same 
thing,” he answered. “Please her, too; she 
thought—being a woman, and having femi¬ 
nine intuition—that Master Pawley was— 
well, something of what he seems to be.” 

“Then you think Pawley came here of set 
purpose—design?” I asked. 

“Maybe!” he answered, coolly. “Didn’t 
strike me at the time. I took the fellow for 
being what he professed to be—though I cer¬ 
tainly wasn’t impressed by his antiquarian 
knowledge. But then, the man described him¬ 
self as a neophyte, a novice. Well, he was— 
very much so!” 

“My opinion is that Pawley was a spy!” 
said I. 

It was a direct challenge to him to let me 
into his mind. But as soon as I had thrown 
it down, I saw that he was not going to take 




Midnight Warning 77 

it up. There was that about his attitude 
which showed me that he was not going to say 
one word in elucidation of the mystery—then, 
at any rate. But just then I remembered 
something. 

“I forgot this!” said I—“It didn’t seem of 
much moment at the time—but it’s this: when 
Pawley was here, you left him and me to¬ 
gether, here, in this room, while you went up¬ 
stairs to write down some notes or memoranda 
for him. During your absence he picked up 
the copper box, and after some remarks on its 
workmanship asked me if I knew whose coat- 
of-arms that was, and some other questions 
about it. He was—suspiciously interested.” 

“How do you mean—suspiciously?” he 
asked. 

“It struck me—perhaps afterwards—that 
Pawley could have answered the question him¬ 
self,” I replied. “Although he asked me, he 
knew—already.” 

“Then the gentleman knew a bit more about 
heraldry than he did about sepulchral bar¬ 
rows!” he remarked with a sardonic laugh. 
“Well, tell that, too, to Madrasia in the morn¬ 
ing—she likes mysteries in fiction and here’s 




78 The Copper Box 

one in real life. Finish your whisky, my lad, 
and let’s go to bed.” 

I knew then that it was hopeless to get any 
explanation from Parslewe. I knew, too, that 
he could tell me a lot, if he wanted. But after 
all it was no concern of mine and I rose. 

“I got the canvas I wanted,” I told him, 
as we were leaving the room. “That’s all right.” 

“Then you can make a start on your pic¬ 
ture,” he answered. “Good night, master!” 

He grinned knowingly at me as we shook 
hands at the door of my room; then he moved 
off to his own. His door closed. The queer 
old house became silent. 

I slept like a top the remainder of that night 
—so soundly, indeed, that it was late when I 
awoke. I had to hurry over my shaving and 
dressing, but after all, I was first in the par¬ 
lour. A cheery fire burned in the hearth; the 
table was laid for breakfast, and on my plate 
I saw an envelope; another lay before Madra- 
sia’s. I snatched mine up, recognised Pars- 
lewe’s crabbed writing, and broke the seal— 
to stare and wonder at what he had written on 
a half-sheet of paper within. 


Midnight Warning 79 

“Dear Craye,” ran his note, “you’re a good 
fellow and dependable. Just take good care 
of the girl until you either hear from or see 
me again. What you told me early this morn¬ 
ing inclines me to believe that I’d better at¬ 
tend to a possibly urgent affair, at once.— 
Vale!— J. P ” 

I had scarcely read and comprehended this 
truly remarkable message when Madrasia ran 
into the room. She was singing—some old 
country song. It came to a dead stop as she 
saw me pointing to the envelope that lay by 
her plate. 






V 


Sir Charles Sperrigoe 

1 STOOD silently watching Madrasia as 
she broke open her letter, drew out the 
scrap of paper inside (Parslewe, as I had al¬ 
ready noticed, was an absolute miser in his 
use of stationery, and made any stray frag¬ 
ment serve his immediate purpose), and read 
whatever was there written. The slight 
pucker of astonishment between her eyebrows 
deepened to a frown, and with a gesture 
that was not exactly definable she tossed the 
paper across to me. 

“What on earth does that mean?” she ex¬ 
claimed. “And where is he?” 

I glanced at this second communication; 
it was comprised in one line— 

“Be a good girl and do as you re told ” 
“Do as you’re told!” she added. “Good 
heavens!—who’s to do the telling?” 

I silently handed her my letter; she looked 

more astonished than ever when she read it. 

81 


82 


The Copper Box 

“What does it all mean?” she asked. “Has 
—but he evidently has gone away. In conse¬ 
quence of something you told him, too! What? 
But wait!” 

She rang a small hand-bell that stood on 
the corner of the breakfast-table; before its 
sharp tinkling had died away the old woman 
came hurrying in. 

“Tibbie!” said Madrasia. “Has Mr. Pars- 
lewe gone away? When?” 

“He went off at five o’clock this morning, 
Miss,” replied Tibbie. “He just tapped of 
me and said he’d be away a day or two, likely, 
and that was all. I looked out of the window 
when he’d gone, and I saw him riding off on 
his pony.” 

“Which way?” demanded Madrasia. 

“Across the moor, Miss,” answered Tibbie. 
“Roddam way.” 

Madrasia hesitated a moment, nodded, and 
turning to the table began to pour out the 
coffee; the old woman withdrew. And as a 
beginning of my warder ship, I turned my at¬ 
tention to the hot dishes. 

“Fish or bacon?” I inquired. 

“Hang the fish—and the bacon!” retorted 


Sir Charles Sperrigoe 83 

Madrasia. “Well, fish, then. What is all 
this mystery? What did you tell him last 
night?” 

“This morning, rather,” said I. “Early 
this morning. Well, I was to tell you. He 
said you’d enjoy it. Better than any fiction! 
But what it’s all about, I don’t know. I wish 
I did! Perhaps you do.” 

“I may do, when you tell me,” she answered. 
“Go on!” 

Between mouthfuls I told her the whole 
story of my adventures, from the moment of 
recognising Pawley to finding Parslewe’s note 
on my plate. At the first mention of the cop¬ 
per box she turned and gazed at that myste¬ 
rious article, reposing in its usual place on the 
sideboard; when I made an end of my narra¬ 
tive she stared at it again. 

“Just so!” I said. “I wish it could speak. 
But—it can’t. And what I want to know is 
precisely what you want to know—what is it 
all about? A first-class mystery, this, any¬ 
way! Pawley comes, and is seen examining 
the copper box. I go to Newcastle, and see 
Pawley meet a fat-faced, white-whiskered old 
partjr. I hear this person talk of the copper 


84 The Copper Box 

box to another man, who turns out to be a 
solicitor. I have a passage-at-arms with a 
coppersmith, who, I feel sure, has seen and 
known the copper box—I have other passages. 
I come home and tell Parslewe—and Parslewe 
flees in the night, leaving me in charge of-” 

“Thank you, but he’d far better have left 
you in charge of me!” she said. “And don’t 
you forget it—while he’s away, I’m boss!— 
never mind what he said—and you’ve got to 
be as good and obedient as they make ’em! I 
countermand his order, so you’re deposed— 
by me! But—I’m thinking.” 

“What about?” I inquired meekly. 

She pointed her fork at the sideboard. 

“The copper box!” she answered. “What 
else?” 

I helped myself to more bacon, and ate for 
a while in silent meditation. 

“Perhaps it’s bewitched!” I observed at 
last. “Sort of Arabian Nights’ business, you 
know.” 

“Don’t be silly!” she commanded. “The 
more I think of it, the more I’m sure this is, 
or may be, a very serious affair. Now to 




Sir Charles Sperrigoe 85 

begin with, the copper box wasn’t always 
where it is, nor in this house at all. ,, 

“No?” I said, inquiringly. 

She remained silent a moment or two, 
evidently reflecting. Then she turned to me 
with an air of confidence. 

“As Jimmie put me under your charge / 5 
she said ingratiatingly, “I-” 

“You told me just now that his orders were 
countermanded, and that you were boss,” 
said I. 

“Oh, well! You know what I mean!” she 
answered. “Anyway, as he said you were to 
tell me all about this extraordinary adventure, 
I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t 
be equally straightforward with you. It 
seems to me that we’re at a pass where frank¬ 
ness is advisable.” 

“Absolutely necessary, I should think,” 
said I. 

“Very well,” she went on. “I remember 
the copper box coming here.” 

“You do?” I exclaimed. “Ah!” 

“Jimmie,” she continued, “to give him the 
name by which I’ve called him ever since I 
was that high, is an eccentric person—very! 



86 


The Copper Box 

Much more eccentric than you’ve any idea of. 
He has fits—not in the medical or pathologi¬ 
cal sense, but fits all the same. They take 
various forms. One form is that of going off, 
all of a sudden, by himself—the Lord knows 
where!” 

“As in the present instance,” I suggested. 

“To be sure! This,” she said, “is by no 
means the first time Tibbie and I have been 
suddenly bereft of his presence. He departs! 
and no more’s heard or seen of him until a 
reappearance as unexpected as his disappear¬ 
ance. And usually—indeed, I suppose al¬ 
ways—when he returns he brings things with 
him.” 

“The thing is obvious,” I remarked. “He’s 
been hunting for curiosities.” 

“Perhaps! But why in such secrecy?” 

“Part of the game. The more secrecy, the 
more pleasure. Human nature—antiquarian 
human nature.” 

“Well, about twelve or fifteen months ago 
he was away like that,” she said. “I don’t 
know where he’d been, he never tells. But 
when he returned the copper box was with 
him. He polished it up the night he came 



Sir Charles Sperrigoe 87 

home. Of course, I admired it, equally, of 
course, I asked him where he’d got it. All he 
said was what he always does say, he’d just 
picked it up. Off the street, no doubt, or on 
the moor, or in an omnibus, or on a train! 
But that’s Jimmie. And on the same occa¬ 
sion he brought back some half-dozen old 
books—very old, apparently rare books— 
about which I noticed a certain thing, though 
I never said a word to him about it—no good!” 

“What was the certain thing?” 

“The books are upstairs in his library; you 
may have seen them. In each there’s a book¬ 
plate with a coat-of-arms, and a legend ex¬ 
actly like those on the copper box.” 

“I’ve seen the books. I saw the coat-of- 
arms, too,” said I. “Odd! And—significant.” 

“Why significant?” 

“Looks as if they’d all come from the same 
source. And he didn’t tell you anything as 
to where he got these things?” 

“He never tells anybody anything as to 
where he gets things—never! He just brings 
them in and puts them down, somewhere—and 
that’s all. However, the copper box disap¬ 
peared for a while—not so very long ago. I 




88 


The Copper Box 

noticed that, and he vouchsafed to tell me that 
he’d taken it to be repaired by a man in New¬ 
castle.” 

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Now I see some 
light! That man was Bickerdale, the copper¬ 
smith. Of course.” 

“I’d thought of that already—thought of 
it as soon as you told me of the Bickerdale 
episode. But—what then?” 

“Um! That’s a very big question,” I an¬ 
swered. “What, then, indeed! But I think 
somebody is very much concerned about that 
copper box—why, only heaven knows. This 
fatuous, white-whiskered old person, for in¬ 
stance. And that reminds me—he’ll turn up 
here this morning, sure as fate. What are we 
to say to him?” 

“Why say more than that the master is 
away?” she asked. 

“That won’t satisfy him,” said I. “He’s a 
pertinacious old party. And he’s Sir Charles 
Somebody-or-other, and he’ll resent being 
treated as if he were a footman leaving cards. 
Let me suggest something.” 

“Well — what?” she asked dubiously. 

We’ve got to be careful.” 




Sir Charles Sperrigoe 89 

“We’ll be careful enough,” said I. “Let’s 
do this. If the old chap comes—and come he 
will—let Tibbie bring him up here. We’ll re¬ 
ceive him in state; you’ll, of course, play the 
part, your proper part, of chatelaine; I, of 
guest. You’ll regret that Mr. Parslewe is 
away from home—indefinitely—and we’ll both 
be warily careful to tell the old man nothing. 
But we’ll watch him. I particularly want to 
see if looks for, sees, and seems to recognise 
the copper box. Pawley will have told him 
where it’s kept—on that sideboard; now let’s 
see if his eyes turn to it. He’ll come!—and 
before long.” 

“Good!” she agreed. “Now, suppose he 
gets cross-examining us?” 

“Fence with him—tell him nothing,” I an¬ 
swered. “Our part is—Mr. Parslewe is 
away.” 

We finished breakfast; the table was 
cleared; we waited, chatting. And before long 
a loud knocking was heard at the door of the 
turret. Tibbie Muir, already instructed, went 
down to respond to it. Presently we heard 
ponderous footsteps on the winding stair. 



90 


The Copper Box 

Tibbie looked in; behind her loomed a large, 
fur-collar-coated bulk. 

“There’s a gentleman calls himself Sir 
Charles—Sir Charles-” began Tibbie. 

The bulk came forward, hat in hand. 

“Allow me, my good woman,” it said unc¬ 
tuously. It looked round in the subdued light 
of the old coloured-glass windows, and seeing 
a lady, bowed itself. “Sir Charles Sperrigoe!” 
it announced. “Ahem! to call on Mr. Pars- 
lewe, Mr. James Parslewe.” 

“Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” replied 
Madrasia. “He is away—on business.” 

Sir Charles showed his disappointment. 
But he glanced keenly at Madrasia and bowed 
again, more politely than ever. 

“Perhaps,” he said, “I have the honour of 
seeing Miss Parslewe?” 

“No,” answered Madrasia. “My name is 
Durham. I am Mr. Parslewe’s ward.” 

Sir Charles looked at me. I was purposely 
keeping myself in the shadowy part of the old 
room; it was darkish there, and I saw that he 
did not recognise me, though he had certainly 
set eyes on me at Newcastle and at Wooler. 




Sir Charles Sperrigoe 91 

“This young gentleman,” he suggested. 
“Mr. Parslewe’s son, perhaps?” 

“No!” said Madrasia. “A visitor.” 

Sir Charles looked sorry and discomfited. 
He fidgeted a little, nervously. 

“Will you sit down, Sir Charles?” asked 
Madrasia. 

He sat down. He took a chair between the 
centre table and the sideboard. He looked at 
Madrasia with interest—and, I thought, with 
decided admiration. 

“Thank you!” he said. “I—ah, deeply re¬ 
gret Mr. Parslewe’s absence. I have heard of 
Mr. Parslewe—as a distinguished antiquary.” 

“Oh!” said Madrasia. “Distinguished?” 

“Distinguished!” cooed Sir Charles. “Dis¬ 
tinguished!” 

“Odd!” remarked Madrasia. “I thought he 
was only a dabbler. That’s what he considers 
himself to be, I’m sure.” 

Sir Charles waved a fat, white hand. 

“Prophets, my dear young lady, are said 
to have no honour in their own country,” he 
observed with a knowing smile. “And your 
truly learned man usually considers himself 


92 The Copper Box 

to be a novice. What says one of my favour¬ 
ite poets? 

“ ‘Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; 

Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.’ 

—Just so—precisely!” 

“You are fond of poetry, Sir Charles?” 
suggested Madrasia. 

“Eminently so! And of antiquities,” as¬ 
sented our caller. “And being in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, and hearing of Mr. Parslewe, I did 
myself the honour of waiting upon him in the 
hope of being able to pay him my respects, 
and to-” 

“Just so!” broke in Madrasia. “So very 
kind of you! I don’t think we were quite 
aware that my guardian’s fame as an anti¬ 
quary had spread, but he appears to be get¬ 
ting celebrated. You are the second person 
who has called to see him, on the same errand, 
within the last few days. The other,” she con¬ 
tinued, “was a gentleman named—er—Paw¬ 
ley. Mr. Pawley.” 

“Ah!” said Sir Charles. “Indeed!—I am 
not acquainted with many antiquaries; I am 
something of a recluse. And, perhaps, Mr.— 
ah—Crawley—oh, Pawley ?—was fortunate 



Sir Charles Sperrigoe 93 

enough to find Mr. Parslewe at home and to 
enjoy the benefit—just so, just so! And I— 
am unfortunate.” 

“Mr. Parslewe went away this morning,” 
remarked Madrasia, in matter-of-fact tones. 
“He may return to-morrow; he mayn’t. He 
mayn’t return for a week; he may. He’s un¬ 
certain. But I’ll certainly tell him you’ve 
called, Sir Charles.” 

“Thank you, thank you!” said Sir Charles. 
“Much regret—and I don’t know how long I 
shall remain in these parts. Delightful, ro¬ 
mantic situation—most romantic! You have 
been here long?” 

“Ever since we came from India,” replied 
Madrasia, forgetting our compact. “Some few 
years ago.” 

“Ah, Mr. Parslewe came from India, did 
he?” asked Sir Charles eagerly. “But you?— 
you were surely not born under those burn¬ 
ing skies?” 

“I was!” answered Madrasia, with a laugh. 

“Of English parents, of course,” suggested 
Sir Charles. “Of course!—the English rose! 
—ah, the English rose! No one, Miss Dur- 


94 The Copper Box 

ham, could mistake you for anything else than 
that!” 

I coughed—discreetly. And Madrasia 

took the hint. 

“I’m sorry Mr. Parslewe is not at home,” 
she began. “Can I give him any message?” 

Sir Charles drew out a card case, and laid 
a card on the table. Then he rose, and we 
both saw his eyes turn to the copper box. He 
gave it a good, straight glance. 

“Thank you, thank you!” he answered. “My 
card, and my compliments and regrets, and 
perhaps I may do myself the pleasure of wait¬ 
ing upon him again, if he returns soon. I 
should much like to see his—ah—collections.” 

Madrasia picked up the card. 

“And you are staying, Sir Charles?” she 
asked. 

“For a day or two at the hotel at Wooler,” 
he replied. “After that, perhaps, for a few 
days in Berwick. The address at Wooler will 
find me, at any rate, during my stay in these 
parts; letters would be forwarded.” 

He was still looking at the copper box, and 
presently he became mendacious. 

“What a truly beautiful old sideboard!” he 


Sir Charles Sperrigoe 95 

remarked, going nearer to that article of fur¬ 
niture. “Mr. Parslewe is, I see, a connoisseur 
in Chippendale work.” 

He went nearer to the sideboard, but we 
both saw that he was not looking at it at all; 
he was staring at the coat-of-arms on the cop¬ 
per box. 

“Delightful pursuit, collecting,” he said, 
straightening himself. “Well, I must run 
away. Pleasure must not be put before busi¬ 
ness, and I have a car waiting, and business at 
the other end of a drive.” 

He shook hands with Madrasia with—I 
thought — unnecessary cordiality. Madrasia 
turned to me. 

“Perhaps you’ll see Sir Charles safely down 
the stair?” she suggested. “It’s rather danger¬ 
ous if you don’t know it.” 

I preceded Sir Charles down the stair and 
opened the door at its foot. It had been 
shadowy in the room, and more so on the stair, 
but there was a full glare of spring sunlight 
on us as we emerged into the courtyard, and 
now, seeing me clearly for the first time, the 
old gentleman let out a sudden sharp excla¬ 
mation. 


96 The Copper Box 

“Hallo, young man!” he said, staring at me, 
while his face flushed under the surprise of 
his recognition. “I’ve seen you before! Last 
night, at the hotel in Wooler. And—and— 
somewhere before that!” 

“In Newcastle, no doubt,” said I. “I saw 
you there two or three times.” 

He stopped dead in the middle of the court¬ 
yard, still staring. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. “The girl 
up there said—a visitor!” 

His bland manner and suave tone had gone 
now, and he was almost hectoring in his atti¬ 
tude. I looked at him wonderingly. 

“Miss Durham described me as what I am,” 
I answered. “A visitor!” 

“Parslewe’s visitor?” he asked. 

“Mr. Parslewe’s visitor—certainly,” said I. 
“His guest.” 

“How long have you known Parslewe?” he 
inquired. 

But his manner was getting somewhat too 
much for my patience. 

“Really!” I began. “I fail to see why-” 

He suddenly tapped me on the chest with 
a strange sort of familiarity. 



97 


Sir Charles Sperrigoe 

“Look you here, young man!” he said. “You 
say you saw me in Newcastle. With any¬ 
body ?” 

“Yes!” I answered, somewhat nettled. “I 
saw you with the man who called himself 
Pawley.” 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “And you saw me 
last night at Wooler, with the police inspector. 
Did you come here and tell that—and the 
Pawley incident—to Parslewe? Come now!” 

“I did!” said I. “Why not?” 

Without another word he strode off to his 
car, motioned to its driver, and went away. 
















VI 


The Irrepressible Newsman 

T WATCHED Sir Charles Sperrigoe drive 
-■* off along the moorland road, and closing 
the turret door, went slowly and full of medi¬ 
tation up the stair to the parlour. Madrasia 
was standing where we had left her, on the 
hearth; she had the copper box in her hands 
and was examining it carefully. On my en¬ 
trance she put it down on the table, and we 
looked at each other. 

“Do you think he’ll come back?” she asked. 

“I don’t know what he’ll do,” I answered, 
“but I think he and Pawley are pretty much 
of a muchness! If he’s master and Pawley’s 
man, then there’s not much to choose between 
man and master! Did you notice that he 
wouldn’t allow that he knew Pawley, whereas 
he knew well enough that he and Pawley met 
at Newcastle only day before yesterday? But 
I’ll tell you what happened downstairs.” 

I gave her a full account of the brief inter- 

99 



9 


100 


The Copper Box 

change of remarks between Sir Charles and 
myself in the courtyard. She listened eagerly, 
and her eyes lit up. 

“Ah!” she said. “I see what he meant! He 
meant that on your telling Jimmie of the do¬ 
ings at Newcastle, and that Sir Charles might 
be expected, Jimmie cleared out quick!” 

“Well, didn’t he clear out?” said I. 

She looked at me a moment in silence; then 
she nodded her head, as much as to assent to an 
undeniable proposition. 

“I suppose he did!” she answered. 

“Suppose? He did clear out!” I exclaimed. 
“Before morning! Why?” 

“Didn’t want to meet this pompous old per¬ 
son,” she said. “That seems to be about it. 
Yes, I think Jimmie decidedly cleared out!” 

“Leaving us to face this sort of thing,” I 
said. “If one only knew what it’s all about, 
what it means, why there’s this hue-and-cry 
after that box-” 

“I think the copper box is only a small part 
of it,” she interrupted. “It’s—a sort of han¬ 
dle, a clue, a—something!” 

“Decidedly a something,” I assented. 
“Doubtless you observed that old White 



The Irrepressible Newsman IOI 

Whiskers very soon spotted it. That was all 
rot about the sideboard! He wasn’t looking 
at the sideboard at all; his eyes were glued on 
the copper box.” 

“He’ll come back!” she exclaimed, suddenly. 
“I’m sure he’ll come back! And I’m wonder¬ 
ing if, when he comes back, he’ll bring the 
police.” 

“The police! What on earth makes youi 
think that?” I asked. “Police? Come!” 

“Didn’t you see Sir Charles Sperrigoe— 
whoever he may be—in conversation with our 
local police inspector last night?” she an¬ 
swered. “Obvious! The old person is in con¬ 
sultation with the police. Perhaps—don’t you 
see?—the box has been stolen.” 

“You don’t imply that Mr. Parslewe stole 
it?” I suggested. 

“Well, I have heard that antiquaries are not 
above appropriating things!” she answered 
with a laugh. “Their sense of mine and thine, 
I believe, is somewhat indefinite. But we’ll 
acquit Jimmie. Only, he may have bought it 
from somebody who stole it.” 

“That’s more like it,” said I. “But in that 
case, why all this mystery? Why didn’t Paw- 



102 


The Copper Box 

ley—who without doubt came after the box— 
say what he wanted? Why didn’t Sperri- 
goe?” 

“Oh, Pawley came to see if the box was 
really here!” she declared. “Sperrigoe came 
to ask how it got here! That’s plain, to me. 
But what I want to know is, why such a fuss 
about it?” 

“And what I want to know is, what made 
Parslewe vanish?” I said. “That’s much 
more of a mystery.” 

“Didn’t you tell me that he seemed to know 
whom you meant when you described Sperri¬ 
goe as Sir Charles?” she asked. “Very well! 
Sir Charles is somebody whom Jimmie knew 
years ago. And Jimmie doesn’t want to meet 
him. Jimmie, as I have told you, is a queer 
man—an eccentric person. And I don’t think 
he’ll come home until Sir Charles Sperrigoe 
has gone away.” 

“And I don’t think Sir Charles Sperrigoe 
will go away until he’s seen Parslewe,” said I. 
“So there we are!” 

“Oh, well! does it matter very much?” she 
asked. “Aren’t we going out this fine morn¬ 
ing? We’re doing no good here, staring at 


The Irrepressible Newsman 103 

that wretched thing and speculating about it. 
Let’s be off!” 

But before we could make any move, Tibbie 
Muir came into the room, looking very disap¬ 
proving and sour of face, and presented 
Madrasia with another card. She became 
voluble. 

“I’ve told him, and I’ve better told him, 
that the master’s not at home,” she declared, 
“but he’ll not take my word nor go away, and 
you must just deal with him yourself, Miss 
Madrasia. And if there’s going to be this 
coming and going at the door all day 
long-” 

Madrasia glanced at the card and passed it 
over to me. It was a printed card, and the 
lettering was meant to be impressive. 

Mr. Augustus Weech. 

Newcastle Evening Planet . 

“Well?” demanded Madrasia. 

“I think I should see this gentleman,” 
said I. 

“Bring him up, Tibbie,” commanded Ma¬ 
drasia. “Perhaps he’ll be the last. What can 



104 


The Copper Box 

he want?” she went on, turning to me as Tib¬ 
bie grumblingly departed. “A reporter?” 

“Newspaper chap of some sort, evidently,” 
I said. “And wanting news! But how does 
he come to know where to apply for news? 
And what news?” 

“We’re only getting more and more fog¬ 
bound,” she remarked. “Wait till we hear 
what he’s got to say; perhaps he has some news 
for us. He’s here!” 

A sharp-eyed, alert, knowing-looking young 
person entered the room and made his bow. 
He was smartly dressed, evidently quite at his 
ease, and full of vitality. And his first proceed¬ 
ing was remarkable. As he straightened him¬ 
self after doing obeisance to Madrasia his eyes 
fell on the copper box, and without preface he 
pointed a long, slender forefinger at it. 

“That’s the identical article!” he exclaimed. 
“Sure!” 

Then he looked round, saw me, grinned as 
if reassured by the sight of a fellow man, and 
turned again to Madrasia. 

“Mr. Parslewe’s not at home, I understand, 
Miss,” he said, affably. “But you’re Miss 


The Irrepressible Newsman 105 

Durham, ain’t you? I’ve heard of you. Now 
if I might sit down-” 

He had dropped into a chair at the side of 
the table before Madrasia had had time to 
invite him thereto; laying his hat by his side 
he ran his right hand through a rather abun¬ 
dant crop of fair hair—his action seemed to 
signify a preliminary to business. 

“I recognized that as soon as I walked in!” 
he said, with another frank and almost child¬ 
like smile. “Queer business, ain’t it, about 
that old box?” 

“I gather that you know something about 
it,” observed Madrasia. 

“I do, Miss, that’s why I’m here,” he an¬ 
swered candidly. “Yes, I know something— 
so, too, I guess, does that young gentleman. I 
saw him t’other day—yesterday, to be exact 
—coming out of Bickerdale’s shop.” 

“You did?” I exclaimed. 

“I did! You came out as I was crossing 
over to it,” he answered. “You made old Bick- 
erdale jolly waxy, too, some way or other. 
You see Bickerdale, he’s my father-in-law.” 

Madrasia and I looked at each other. I 



106 The Copper Box 

think we both had the same thought—that our 
visitor looked very juvenile to be married. 

“Oh!” I said. “Indeed?” 

“Yes,” he continued. “Been that for the 
last three years—a man of a queer and dour 
temper is Bickerdale. You set his back up 
yesterday, Mr.—I don’t know your name?” 

“My name is Craye,” I replied. 

“Mr. Craye—all right. Well, Mr. Craye 
and Miss Durham—or vice versa , if I’m to be 
polite—it’s like this,” he proceeded gaily. 
“There’s a mystery about that copper box, 
isn’t there? I guess Mr. Parslewe knows 
there is—but your old woman says he’s away 
—queer old party, that old woman, isn’t she? 
—a character, I should think. But if Mr. 
Parslewe’s away, you ain’t! And I want to 
get at something—and to get at it, I don’t 
mind telling what I know. Between our¬ 
selves, of course.” 

Madrasia and I exchanged another glance; 
then we both sat down, one on either side of 
our loquacious visitor. 

“What do you know, Mr. Weech?” I asked, 
in my friendliest tone. 



The Irrepressible Newsman 107 

“Yes,” said Madrasia. “It would be so 
kind of you to tell us that!” 

Mr. Weech smiled, drumming his fingers on 
the crown of his hat. 

“Well!” he said, graciously, “I’ll tell you! 
Of course, I came to tell Mr. Parslewe—but 
you’ll do. And no doubt you’ll be able to tell 
me something. Well, me first, then. As I 
said, I’m Bickerdale’s son-in-law. I married 
his third daughter, Melissa—she’s all right. 
Naturally, being in the relation I am to 
Bickerdale, I’m a good deal in and out of 
his place—go there Sundays, with the wife 
and kid. Now, not so very long ago, I 
was there one Sunday, and happening to go 
into his workshop for a smoke—my mother- 
in-law having a decided objection to to¬ 
bacco in the parlour—I set eyes on that 
article—that very copper box! I was a 
a bit taken with the engraved coat-of-arms 
and the queer motto underneath, and I asked 
Bickerdale where he’d got it. He told me that 
Mr. Parslewe of Kelpieshaw had brought it 
to him to be repaired—it had got slightly 
damaged by a fall, and needed a coppersmith’s 
attention. We talked a bit about it. Bicker- 





108 The Copper Box 

dale said it had been made—beaten copper, you 
know—at least a hundred years, and was a 
very pretty bit of work. It had got a bulge 
in one side, and Bickerdale had to straighten 
it out—very delicate and gentle business. But 
he did it, and either Mr. Parslewe fetched it 
away, or it was sent to him. Anyhow, there it 
is!—that’s the box!” 

Mr. Weech gave the copper box a tap with 
his finger-nail as if to evoke a confirmation of 
his words, and proceeded. 

“Now, a bit—can’t say now how long ex¬ 
actly—after the box had come back here, I 
was up at Bickerdale’s one Sunday, and after 
dinner Bickerdale took me into his office. ‘I 
say!’ he says, when we were alone. ‘You re¬ 
member that copper box that I was repairing, 
that you admired?—of course you do! Well, 
look here, there was some goods came the other 
day in an old copy of The Times / he says, 
‘and my eye just happened to fall on this, on 
the front page,’ and he pulled out an old 
Times and pointed to an advertisement that 
he’d marked, in the personal column. I read 
it, and I gaped at it! This,” continued Mr. 
Weech, suddenly producing a folded newspa- 




The Irrepressible Newsman 109 

per from an inner pocket, “this is not the iden¬ 
tical copy of The Times that Bickerdale had; 
this is another copy of the same issue—I got 
it, as a back number, for myself. Now, Miss 
Durham and Mr. Craye, you read that! and 
you’ll be getting at a very good notion of what 
it is that I want to get out of Mr. Parslewe! 
There, marked with red ink.” 

He laid the newspaper on the table before 
us, and we bent over it, reading with feelings 
which—so far as I was concerned—rapidly 
became mixed. 

“£250 Rewakd. To Auctioneers, Antiqua¬ 
rian and Second-hand Booksellers, Buyers of 
Rare Books, etc.: Missing, and Probably 
Stolen, from a well-known Private Library, 
the following Scarce Works. 1. Hubbard’s 
Present State of New England, 1677; 2. 
Brandt’s Ship of Fooles, 1570; 3. Burton’s 
Anatomy, 1621; 4.Whole Works of Samuel 
Daniel, Esquire, in Poetrie, 1623; 5. Dray-* 
ton’s Polyolbion, 1622; 6. Higden’s Poly- 
cronicon, 1527; 7. Florio’s Montaigne, 1603. 
Each of these copies, all extremely scarce, 
contains a book-plate of which the follow- 



no 


The Copper Box 

ing is a full description. [Here followed a 
technical account, heraldic in detail.] Also 
Missing, and probably stolen at the same 
time, an Amtique Box, of Beaten Copper, 
on the front of which is engraved the coat- 
of-arms and legend particularised in the 
foregoing description. It is probable that 
these properties will be offered to well-known 
collectors, here or abroad. The book-plates 
may have been removed. The above men¬ 
tioned reward of £250 will be paid to any per¬ 
son giving information which will lead to their 
recovery. Such information should be given to 
the undersigned. 

“Sperrigoe, Chillingley, and Watson, 

“Solicitors. 

“ 3 , Friars’ Pavement, 

Medminster.” 

I took matters into my own hands on read- 
_xig this. First nudging Madrasia’s elbow to 
give her warning that I was about to do some¬ 
thing requiring delicacy and diplomacy, I 
turned to Mr. Weech. 

“That’s very interesting,” said I. “And— 


The Irrepressible Newsman ill 

curious! Er—perhaps you’d like a little re¬ 
freshment, Mr. Weech, after your journey? 
A whisky-and-soda, now?” 

“Well, thank you,” he answered, readily, 
with a glance at the sideboard. “It wouldn’t 
come amiss, Mr. Craye; I hired a push-bicycle 
at Wooler, but, my word! it wasn’t half a job 
shoving the old thing over your roads—some 
part of the way, at any rate! Cruel!” 

I gave him a good stiff mixture and put a 
box of biscuits at the side of his glass. Then 
I got Madrasia’s attention once more, and, 
holding The Times in my hand, turned to the 
door. 

“Just excuse Miss Durham and myself for 
a few minutes, Mr. Weech,” I said. “We’ll 
not keep you long.” 

Outside the parlour, and with its door safely 
shut on our visitor, I looked at Madrasia, who, 
in her turn, looked inquiringly at me. 

“Come up to the library!” I whispered. 
“Those books!” 

“Yes!” she answered. “I thought of that!” 

We stole up the stair, for all the world as if 
we were going to commit some nefarious deed, 
and into the room wherein Parslewe kept his 


112 


The Copper Box 

various and many treasures. Within five 
minutes we had satisfied ourselves, and stood 
looking questioningly at each other. We had 
reason; the books specified in the advertise¬ 
ment were all there! Every one of them!— 
book-plates and all. 

“What next?” muttered Madrasia at last. 
“Of course, we musn’t tell him!” 

She nodded at the floor, indicating the spot 
beneath which Mr. Weech was sipping his 
drink and nibbling biscuits. 

“Tell him nothing!” said I. “But, let him 
tell us! C ome down!’ ’ 

We went down again; Mr. Weech looked 
very comfortable. 

“We should like to hear more of your very 
interesting story, Mr. Weech,” I said. “You 
got to the point where Bickerdale showed you 
this advertisement. What happened after 
that?” 

“Why, this,” he answered, evidently more 
ready to talk than ever. “Bickerdale and I 
consulted. He was all for writing to these law¬ 
yers at once, denouncing Mr. Parslewe as the 
thief. I said, metaphorically, you know— 
that he was an ass; it was much more likely 


The Irrepressible Newsman 113 

that Mr. Parslewe had been taken in by the 
real and actual thief. I advised seeing Mr. 
Parslewe. But Bickerdale, he wrote, unbe¬ 
known to me, to these lawyers, saying that he 
was sure he’d had this copper box in his hands, 
and that where it was, probably the books 
would be. And those lawyers sent a man—a 
private detective—down to investigate-” 

“Name of Pawley, eh?” I suggested. 

“Never heard it, but I shouldn’t wonder if 
it was,” he answered. “I only heard of him. 
Anyway, he came—and his principal followed 
him—a big, pompous man, who was at Bick- 
erdale’s yesterday. And that’s where Bicker- 
dale c.id I quarrelled, see?” 

“Not quite,” I replied. “How, and why, 
did you quarrel?” 

“Because Bickerdale, for some queer reason 
or other, suddenly shut his mouth after that 
fat old party had been, and wouldn’t give me 
one scrap of information,” answered Mr. 
Weech, with a highly injured air. “Dead si¬ 
lence on his part, eh ? Flat refusal! That was 
after I saw you leaving him. Ab-so-lute-ly re¬ 
fused to tell me one word about what was go¬ 
ing on! Me! his son-in-law, and more than, 




114 The Copper Box 

for that’s where the shoe pinches, a press¬ 
man!” 

“Ah!” I exclaimed, seeing light at last. 
“I see! You want to make what they call a 
story of it?” 

“What else?” he answered, with a knowing 
wink. “What d’ye suppose I’m here for? I 
don’t believe Mr. Parslewe—I’ve heard of him, 
many a time—stole that blessed box—not I! 
But there’s romance, and mystery, and what 
not about the whole thing, and I want to work 
it up and make a live column, or a couple of 
’em, out of it, and so I came to the fountain¬ 
head, and Mr. Parslewe’s away, worse luck. 
Now, can you tell me anything?” 

We got rid of Mr. Weech by promising him 
faithfully that on Mr. Parslewe’s return we 
would tell him all that had transpired, and 
would entreat him to favour our visitor with 
his exclusive confidence, and after another 
whisky-and-soda, during his consumption of 
which he told us confidentially that he meant 
to Ride High, he went away, leaving us more 
mystified than ever. 

And we were still more mystified when, 
during the course of that afternoon, a tele- 




The Irrepressible Newsman 115 

graph boy came all the way over the moors 
from Wooler, bringing me a message. It was, 
of course, from Parslewe, and, as Madrasia at 
once remarked, just like him. 

Both of you meet me Newcastle Central 
Station noon to-morrow . 













« 



















VII 


IVhat the Dying Man Said 

W E discussed that telegram during the 
greater part of the next few hours, 
arguing out its meanings and significances; 
we became no wiser in the process, but it 
seemed hopeless to endeavour to settle down 
to anything else. Madrasia, I think, got some 
relief in making the necessary arrangements 
for our departure in the morning; I think, too, 
that she was further relieved at the prospect 
of meeting her eccentric guardian and getting 
—or attempting to get—some explanation of 
these curious proceedings. For that they were 
curious, to the last degree, was beyond ques¬ 
tion. My own rapid review of them, taking 
in everything from the first coming of Pawley 
to the visit of Mr. Augustus Weech, only 
served to convince me that we were becoming 
hopelessly entangled in a series of problems 
and theories about which it was as useless as it 

was impossible to speculate. 

117 


Ii8 The Copper Box 

But there was more to come before the aft¬ 
ernoon closed. First of all came another wire 
from Parslewe. It was short and peremptory, 
like the first, but it was more illuminating, and, 
in some queer way, it cheered us up. 

Bring the box with you. 

Madrasia clapped her hands. 

“That’s better!” she exclaimed. “That’s 
lots better! It means that he’s clearing things 
up, or he’s going to. For heaven’s sake, don’t 
let’s forget the copper box! Which of us is 
most to be depended upon for remembering?” 

“I, of course,” said I, “being a man.” 

“We’ll debate that on some other occasion,” 
she retorted. “As a woman—Lord! what’s 
that?” 

Old Tibbie was just entering with the tea- 
tray; as she opened the door, a loud, insistent 
knocking came on the iron-studded panels at 
the foot of the stair. Tibbie groaned and al¬ 
most dropped her tray, and Madrasia turned 
appealingly to me. 

“We’re all getting nervous,” she said. 
“Will you run down?” 


What the Dying Man Said 119 

I went down the stair, opened the great 
door, and found myself confronting a fresh- 
coloured, pleasant-faced man who had just 
dismounted from a serviceable but handsome 
cob and stood in the courtyard with its bridle 
over his arm. He smiled at sight of me. 

“Mr. Craye, I’m sure?” he said. “I’ve 
heard of you. Staying here with Mr. Pars- 
lewe. Now, is Mr. Parslewe in? I mean, has 
he returned?” 

“No!” I answered, bluntly enough. 

He looked at me with a glance that was 
at once understanding and confidential; there 
was, I thought, something very like the sus¬ 
picion of a wink in his eye. 

“The fact of the case is, I’m his solicitor,” 
he remarked. “And-” 

But just then Madrasi a came flying down 
the stairs, and greeted the visitor so warmly 
that for the fraction of a second I really felt 
jealous. 

“Mr. Murthwaite!” she cried, catching his 
readily extended hand and shaking it almost 
fervently. “Oh!—this is awfully good of you. 
We’re in an absolute muddle here—mentally, 
I mean—and now you’ll clear everything up 




120 


The Copper Box 

for us! The sight of you is as good as sun¬ 
shine after storm. Come in!—old Edie shall 
take your horse. This gentleman is Mr. Al- 
very Craye, a famous artist, and he’s nearly 
as much out of his wits as I am!” 

“Then I find myself in queer and possibly 
dangerous company!” remarked Mr. Murth- 
waite, with another half wink at me. “How¬ 
ever, I hope you’re sane enough to give me 
some tea, Miss Durham? Good!—then I’ll 
come in.” He handed his horse over to old 
Muir and followed Madrasia up the stair, I 
coming behind. His tone had been light and 
bantering up to then, but as soon as the 
three of us had reached the parlour and I had 
closed the door he turned to both with a quick, 
searching, earnest glance, and, unconsciously, 
I think, lowered his voice. “Now look here,” 
he said, in the tone of a man who wants a di¬ 
rect answer. “Do you young people, either 
of you, know where Parslewe is? What I 
really mean, though, is—is he in this house?” 

“In this house!” exclaimed Madrasia. 
“Good heavens! Do you mean—hidden?” 

“Why not?” answered Murthwaite. “I dare 
say one who knows it could hide in this old 


What the Dying Man Said 121 

place for a month. But is he? Or anywhere 
about?” 

Madrasia looked at me; I looked at the two 
telegrams which were lying on the table be¬ 
yond the tea-tray. 

“As Mr. Murthwaite is Mr. Parslewe’s 
solicitor,” said I, “I should show him those 
wires. They are the best answer to his ques¬ 
tion.” 

“Yes!” agreed Madrasia. She snatched up 
the telegrams, and put them in Murthwaite’s 
hand; we both watched him intently while he 
read. “There!” she said, as he folded them 
again. “What do you think?” 

“I think that Parslewe is a very strange 
man!” replied Murthwaite. “I think, too, that 
I must have a talk to you—both—about him. 
Now, as the tea is there, and you are so hos¬ 
pitable-” 

We gathered round the table, and Madrasia 
began to busy herself with the teapot and the 
cups. It was useless to attempt the talking 
of nothings; we were all full of the occasion 
of Murthwaite’s visit, and he was acute enough 
not to keep Madrasia and myself waiting for 
his news. 



122 


The Copper Box 

“I’ll tell you, briefly, what brought me 
here,” he said, after his first cup. “To-day, 
about noon, I had a visit from a Sir Charles 
Sperrigoe, who, after introducing himself as a 
fellow solicitor from a distant part of the 
country, told me that he had just ascertained 
in the town that I was solicitor to Mr. James 
Parslewe of Kelpieshaw; that he had been out 
to Kelpieshaw to find Mr. Parslewe, had failed 
to find him, and so had come to me. He then 
told me a very wonderful tale, which I am 
quite at liberty to tell you, and will tell to 
you presently. But first, I want to hear from 
Mr. Craye a story which I think he can tell 
about Newcastle. Sir Charles is under the 
impression that Mr. Craye told something to 
Mr. Parslewe last night which sent him off on 
his travels. I should like to hear that story, 
and then I’ll tell you what Sir Charles Sper¬ 
rigoe told me, under persuasion.” 

“I’d better tell you the plain facts about the 
whole affair, from the coming here of a man 
named Pawley until your own arrival just 
now,” said I. “You’ll then have the entire 
history of the matter before you, as far as I 
know it. It’s this-” 



What the Dying Man Said 123 

He listened carefully, sipping his tea and 
munching his toast, while I told him every¬ 
thing. Now and then Madrasia corrected or 
prompted me a little; between us we gave him 
all the salient facts and details, down to the 
visit of Weech and the receipt of the last tele¬ 
gram; Madrasia had the last word. 

“And then you came, Mr. Murthwaite! 
And if you can tell us what it all means, we’ll 
bless you!” she said. “Can you?” 

But Murthwaite shook his head, decidedly. 

“I can’t!” he answered. “Even now it’s as 
much a mystery to me as ever, though I think 
I see a little gleam of light—a very, very little 
one. No, I can only tell you what Sperrigoe 
told me this morning. If I may have another 
cup of your very excellent tea, and a ciga¬ 
rette with it-” 

He waited during a moment’s silent reflec¬ 
tion, then, leaning back in his chair, and using 
his cigarette occasionally to point his remarks, 
he began to address us pretty much as if we 
constituted a jury. 

“The firm of which Sir Charles Sperrigoe is 
senior partner,” he said, “has for many years 
acted as legal advisers to a very ancient family 



124 The Copper Box 

in the Midlands, the Palkeneys of Palkeney 
Manor, whose coat-of-arms you see on the now 
famous copper box on that sideboard, com¬ 
plete with its curious legend, or motto. The 
Palkeneys have been there at Palkeney ever 
since Tudor times—in fact, since the earliest 
Tudor times. A wealthy race, I understand, 
but one of those which have gradually dwin¬ 
dled. And to come down to quite recent times, 
a few years ago, an old gentleman who 
was believed to be the very last of the Palke¬ 
neys, Mr. Matthew Palkeney, was living 
at Palkeney Manor. He was a very old man, 
nearly ninety. Once, in his early days, he 
had had a younger brother, John Palkeney, 
but he, as a young man, had taken his portion, 
a younger son’s portion, gone away from the 
ancestral home, and never been heard of 
again—the last that was heard of him was 
from South America, sixty or seventy years 
ago, when he was starting into hitherto unex¬ 
plored country, where, it was believed, he lost 
his life. And so, in his old age, Matthew 
Palkeney, as last of his race, was very lonely. 
And one day he was stricken down in his last 
illness, and for some hours Sperrigoe, the doc- 


What the Dying Man Said 125 

tor, the housekeeper, the nurse, all gathered 
about his death-bed, were considerably dis¬ 
turbed and puzzled by the old man’s repetition 
of certain words. They were the only words 
he murmured after being struck down, and he 
said them over and over again before he died. 
I will tell you what they were. These —The 
copper box—a Palheney—a Palkeney—the 
copper box!” 

He paused, with due appreciation of the 
dramatic effect, and looked at us. Madrasia 
gave a little shudder. 

“Creepy!” she murmured. 

“Very!” agreed Murthwaite. “Well, no¬ 
body knew what the old man meant, and it 
was useless to try to get him to give any ex¬ 
planation. But when he was dead, the old 
housekeeper, after much cudgelling of her 
brains, remembered that in a certain cabinet 
in a certain corner of the library there was a 
small box of beaten copper which she had seen 
Matthew Palkeney polish with his own hands 
in past years. She and Sperrigoe went to look 
for it; it was gone! Sperrigoe had the house 
searched from top to bottom for it; it was not 
in the house! That copper box had been 


126 The Copper Box 

stolen—and there it is, on Parslewe’s side¬ 
board, here in Northumberland. That is— 
fact. Fact!” 

He paused again, and we kept silence until 
it pleased him to go on. 

“How did it get here?—or, rather, since no¬ 
body but Parslewe knows that, we can only 
deal with this—how did Sperrigoe find out 
that it was here? Mr. Craye has just told 
me one side of that, I can tell another. When 
Sperrigoe found that the copper box had been 
undoubtedly stolen, he had a thorough exami¬ 
nation made of the contents of the library 
and checked by a printed catalogue kept 
there—for the library is famous. Then he 
found that several rare and valuable old books 
had disappeared with the copper box. Then 
he advertised. You know the rest. Parslewe 
had taken the copper box to Bickerdale; Bick¬ 
er dale saw Sperrigoe’s advertisement—and so 
on. And now, when Pawley, as Sperrigoe’s 
advance agent, and then Sperrigoe himself, 
turn up to ask a direct question as to how he 
became possessed of the copper box, why does 
he run off?” 

“Happening to know him,” said Madrasia 



What the Dying Man Said 127 

quickly, “I can answer that. For good and 
honest reasons of his own!” 

“As his friend and solicitor,” remarked 
Murthwaite, “I say Amen to that! But— 
why not have given some explanation?” 

But it was time for me to step in there. 

“Mr. Murthwaite!” I said. “Neither Paw¬ 
ley nor Sir Charles Sperrigoe asked for any 
explanation! Sperrigoe, of course, never saw 
Mr. Parslewe; Pawley came here as a mere 

spy-” 

“Yes, yes!” he interrupted. “But what I 
really mean is, why didn’t he give some ex¬ 
planation to you?” 

“To me!” I exclaimed. “Why to me?” 

“Because you were the only person who 
knew the—shall we say immediate facts of 
the case?” he replied. “Evidently, although 
you have only known each other a few days, he 
trusts you, Mr. Craye. Why didn’t he give 
you a brief explanation of this seeming mys¬ 
tery instead of stealing away in the night? 
Why?” 

“As I said!” exclaimed Madrasia. “For 
good reasons—of his own.” 



128 


The Copper Box 

Murthwaite drummed his fingers on the 
table, regarding us intently. 

“Don’t you see?” he said suddenly. “Don’t 
you realise the suspicion he has brought on 
himself? Sir Charles Sperrigoe doesn’t know 
him.” 

“I’m not so sure of that!” said I, with equal 
suddenness. “Anyway, I’m quite sure he 
knows Sperrigoe—or knew him once. Sure of 
it from a remark he made when I was telling 
him about Sperrigoe.” 

“Eh!” exclaimed Murthwaite. “What re¬ 
mark?” 

I told him. He rose suddenly from his 
chair, as if an idea had struck him, and for a 
minute or two paced the room, evidently think¬ 
ing. Then he came back to the table, resumed 
his seat, and turned from one to the other, 
pointing to the two telegrams which still lay 
where he had put them down. 

“Let us get to business,” he said. “Now I 
suppose you two young people are going to 
meet Parslewe at Newcastle to-morrow morn¬ 
ing in response to those wires?” 

“Certainly,” answered Madrasia. “And 
we shall take the copper box with us.” 


What the Dying Man Said 129 

“Very well,” he continued. “Then I want 
you to do three things. First, tell Parslewe 
all that I have told you as regards the Palke- 
ney affair. Second, tell him that on my own 
responsibility, and as his friend and solicitor, 
I have given Sir Charles Sperrigoe an assur¬ 
ance—a pledge, in fact—that he will, as 
quickly as possible, give Sir Charles a full ac¬ 
count of how box and books came into his pos¬ 
session, so that their progress from Palkeney 
Manor to Kelpieshaw may be traced—it’s in¬ 
conceivable, of course, that Mr. Parslewe came 
by them in any other than an honest way. 
Third, I have persuaded Sir Charles to go 
home—where he awaits Mr. Parslewe’s com¬ 
munication.” 

“Oh!” said Madrasia. “But has he gone?” 

“He went south after seeing me—by the 
next train,” replied Murthwaite. 

“Leaving the police inspector at Wooler 
under the impression that my guardian is a 
possible thief, eh?” suggested Madrasia. 

“Nothing of the sort!” retorted Murth- 
waite. “Come, come, my dear young lady! 
—things aren’t done in that way. All that 
Sperrigoe did in that quarter was to make 



130 


The Copper Box 

certain guarded inquiries as to Parslewe’s 
status in the neighbourhood. The police know 
nothing, of course.” 

There was a brief silence, broken at last by 
Madrasia. 

“Of course, we will give my guardian your 
message,” she said. “Every word! But, Mr. 
Murthwaite, haven’t you any idea of what all 
this is about? All this fuss, mystery, running 
up and down country about a copper box— 
that box?” 

Murthwaite laughed, and turning to the 
sideboard took the copper box from it. 

“I’ve no more idea of the solution of the 
mystery than you have,” he answered. “This 
article is certainly a curiosity in itself. Fine 
old beaten copper, beautifully made, and 
beautifully engraved. But why all this fuss 
about it—as you say—I can’t think. Still, 
when a dying man mutters what old Matthew 
Palkeney did, over and over again, eh? Nat¬ 
urally his man-of-law wants to get at some 
sort of clearing up. My own notion is that 
it’s not the copper box, but what may have 
been in the copper box! Not the case, but the 
contents—don’t you see?” 


What the Dying Man Said 131 

“You think something was kept in it at 
Palkeney Manor?” I suggested. 

“Probably,” he assented. “That’s just 
about what I do think.” 

“And that the original thief has stolen 
whatever it was?” 

“Just so! The box may have passed 
through several hands before it came into 
Parslewe’s. Parslewe no doubt picked up this 
thing in some curio shop—the books, too.” 

“Have the people of Palkeney Manor any 
idea as to how the theft occurred?” I asked. 

“None!—according to Sperrigoe. But I 
understand that Palkeney Manor is a sort of 
show-place. That is, there are certain rooms 
which are shown to the public, including the 
library. A shilling fee is charged on certain 
mornings of the week—the proceeds are given 
to the local charities. And, of course, Sperri¬ 
goe thinks that this box and the books were 
stolen by some visitor only just before old Mr. 
Matthew Palkeney’s death. So—there we 
are! All that’s wanted now is—a few words 
from Parslewe.” 

He then said he must go, and presently we 
went down the stair and out into the court- 



13^ 


The Copper Box 

yard with him. Old Edie brought out the eob; 
with his hand on its bridle Murthwaite turned 
to Madrasia. 

“Now just get Parslewe to come straight 
back and tell me all about it so that I can 
write to Sperrigoe and clear up the mystery,” 
he said. “Tell him all I have said, and that 
he must come at once.” 

But Madrasia was beginning to show signs 
of a certain mutinous spirit. 

“We’ll tell him every word you’ve said, and 
all about Sperrigoe coming here, and Weech 
coming, too,” she answered. “But, you know, 
Mr. Murthwaite, you’re completely ignoring 
something, lawyer though you are!” 

“What?” he asked, with an amused laugh. 

“That my guardian would never have gone 
away, never have wired for Mr. Craye and 
myself, never asked that the copper box should 
be brought to him, unless he had very good 
and strong reasons,” she answered. “Do you 
think he’s playing at something? Rot! The 
whole thing’s much more serious than you 
think!” 

Murthwaite looked from her to me. 


What the Dying Man Said 133 

“That your opinion, too, Mr. Craye?” he 
asked. 

“It is!” said I. “My absolute opinion.” 

He shook hands with us, and got into his 
saddle. He bent down for a last word. 

“Never been so curious about a matter in 
my life!” he said. “But it must end!” 

Then he rode off across the moor and dis¬ 
appeared. And next morning Madrasia and 
I journeyed to Newcastle, she carrying the 
copper box, neatly tied up and sealed. Our 
train ran in at the very time at which we were 
to meet Parslewe. But we saw no Parslewe. 
We stood staring around us until a man in the 
livery of a hall-porter came along, eyeing us 
closely, and stopped at my side. 

“Beg pardon, sir—Mr. Craye, sir? Just 
so, sir—Mr. Parslewe’s compliments, and will 
you and the young lady join him at lunch in 
the hotel? This way, sir.” 











VIII 


One Minute Past Midnight 

W E followed Parslewe’s messenger across 
the platform to the hotel in a state 
of mute obedience, being, as Madrasia re¬ 
marked afterwards, resigned by that time to 
anything that Parslewe did or commanded. 
But I think hunger had something to do with 
our meekness; we had breakfasted early, and 
had had nothing since, and as far as I was 
concerned the thought of this hotel and its 
excellent fare—already known to me—was by 
no means unwelcome. I turned instinctively 
towards the coffee-room as we entered, al¬ 
ready anticipating its pleasures more than my 
meeting with Parslewe. But our guide steered 
us away from it; he took us upstairs, along 
corridors, down passages, finally opened a 
door. And there was a private sitting-room, 
and a table laid for lunch, and on the hearth, 

warming his coat-tails at a blazing fire, his 

135 




136 The Copper Box 

saturnine countenance wearing a more cynical 
grin than ever, Parslewe. 

He greeted us as coolly and unconcernedly 
as if we were in his own parlour at Kelpie- 
shaw and had just come down to breakfast; 
indeed, he scarcely did more than give us 
a careless good morning, his chief concern 
just then seemed to be to catch the porter’s 
attention before he closed the door on us. 

“Hi, you!” he called. “Just tell that waiter 
to bring up lunch, will you?—there’s a good 
fellow! Well,” he went on, regarding us 
speculatively as the man went off. “I suppose 
you’re hungry, eh?” 

“Very!” said I. 

“Famishing!” declared Madrasia. 

He inspected her critically, rubbed his chin, 
and pointed to a side table. 

“Take your things off and throw ’em on 
there, my dear,” he said. “You can take ’em 
to your own room afterwards.” 

Madrasia, in the act of divesting herself, 
turned on him. 

“Room?” she exclaimed. 

“Number 186, yours,” he answered, calmly. 
“Yours, Craye, is 95—next mine. Don’t for- 


One Minute Past Midnight 137 

get the numbers—however, if you do, they’ll 
tell you at the office. They’re booked in your 
respective names.” 

“Do you mean that we’ve got to stay the 
night here?” demanded Madrasia. 

“Precisely,” replied Parslewe, in his most 
laconic manner. “Two, maybe.” 

“I haven’t come prepared to stay any 
nights,” said Madrasia. “I haven’t brought 
even a toothbrush!” 

“Buy one!” he retorted. “Excellent shops 
in the place, my dear.” 

Madrasia stared at him harder than ever. 

“You’re developing a very extraordinary 
habit of ordering people about, Jimmie!” she 
exclaimed at last. “Why all this insistence?” 

“Needs must where the devil drives!” he 
answered with a cynical laugh. 

“Are you the devil?” she asked. 

“I don’t know exactly what I am, my dear, 
since night before last,” he replied, with a 
relapse into mildness. “But I’m hoping to 
know before long. And in the meantime, let’s 
be comfortable—here’s food and drink.” 

Two waiters came in with hot dishes; we 
sat down. I don’t know if Parslewe had 


138 The Copper Box 

expected us to be unusually hungry, but he 
had certainly taken pains to order a delightful 
lunch and to prove to us that he had a very 
nice and critical taste in champagne. And 
all the time we were lunching he kept the 
waiters in the room, artfully, I thought, lest 
Madrasia should open out on the subject 
uppermost in our thoughts; true, he talked 
freely himself, but it was all about a play that 
he had seen at the Theatre Royal on the 
previous evening, and of which he was 
enthusiastically full. 

“But you shall see it yourself to-night,” 
he wound up. “I’ve booked two seats—Craye 
shall take you.” 

“And—you?” asked Madrasia. “Won’t it 
bear seeing twice in succession?” 

“I’ve some business,” he answered. “I 
shall be out when you return; we’ll compare 
notes in the morning.” 

I saw that Madrasia was dying to ask him 
what his business was, but the waiters were 
still in the room. It was not until they had 
served us with coffee and gone away for good 
that Parslewe came to what we certainly 
regarded as business. Giving me a cigar and 



One Minute Past Midnight 139 

lighting one himself, he turned his chair 
towards the hearth, settled in an easy position 
with one elbow on the table, and flung us a 
glance over his shoulder. 

“Now, then!” he said. “What’s gone on 
up yonder since I left? And as you can’t 
both speak at once, settle between yourselves- 
which is going to be spokesman. But first— 
where is that box?” 

Madrasia, the morning being cold, had 
come in furs; amongst them a big muff, in 
the pocket of which she had carried the 
copper box. She rose, extracted it from its 
hiding-place, and laid it on the table at 
Parslewe’s side; then she pointed a finger 
at me. 

“Let him tell,” she said. “I’ll correct him 
where he’s wrong.” 

“Go ahead, Craye,” commanded Parslewe. 
“Detail!” 

I told him of everything that had happened 
at Kelpieshaw since his own mysterious dis¬ 
appearance, watching him carefully and even 
narrowly as I talked. He listened silently 
and impassively; only once did he interrupt 
me, and that was to ask for a more particular 


140 The Copper Box 

description of Mr. Augustus Weech. He 
seemed to reflect a good deal when he got 
that, but he let me go on to the end without 
further questioning, and received the message 
from Murthwaite just as phlegmatically as 
he had taken in everything else. In point of 
absolute inscrutability and imperviousness 
Parslewe in that particular mood of his could 
have given points to the Sphinx. 

“And that’s all,” I concluded. “All!” 

“All!” repeated Madrasia. “Except that 
I reiterate precisely what Murthwaite said— 
you’ve got to go back to Wooler and see him 
and tell him all about it and enable him to 
keep his word to Sir Charles Sperrigoe. And 
that’s that!” 

Parslewe’s thin lips resolved themselves into 
that straight, rigid line which I had already 
come to know as well as I knew my own 
reflection in a mirror. When he relaxed them 
it was to indulge in one of his sardonic laughs, 
which died away into a cynical chuckle and 
ended in one of his angelic smiles, cast, of 
course, in his ward’s direction. 

“Oh, that’s that, is it, my dear?” he said, 
sweetly. “Well, then, it isn’t! I’m not going 


One Minute Past Midnight 141 

to traipse back to Wooler—till I please! 
I’m not going to suit the convenience of either 
Charlie Sperrigoe or Jackie Murthwaite 
—till I please! I reckon I know my own 
business as well as the next man, and I shall 
just carry it out—as I please! And if you 
want me to indulge in modern slang—that’s 
that!” 

“And it all means that you know a great 
deal more than you’ve let out!” exclaimed 
Madrasia. 

He treated us to another of his sardonic 
bursts of laughter at that. 

“I’m not aware that I’ve let out anything 
at all, my dear, so far!” he retorted. 
“And I’ve no intention of doing so 
until-” 

“Until you please!” said Madrasia. “Pre¬ 
cisely! More mystery! Really, Jimmie, for 
a respectable elderly gentleman-” 

He laughed again, throwing up his head 
as if he enjoyed being scolded, rose from his 
chair, and, standing on the hearth with his 
hands in his pockets, looked from one to the 
other of us as if he enjoyed seeing: us wonder. 
Suddenly he drew one hand out, full of 





142 The Copper Box 

money. There was gold in those days!— 
plenty of it—and Parslewe had a fist full. 
He held it out to Madrasia. 

“Go and buy a toothbrush!” he said. 
“You know the town—go and do a bit of 
shopping. Better get all you want—didn’t I 
say we might be two nights? Go and amuse 
yourself, my dear, and leave mysteries alone. 
There are no mysteries—to me, anyway.” 
He thrust the money into her hands, stood 
smilingly by while she put on her furs, and 
when she had gone, turned to me with a 
laugh. 

“Trust a woman for making the most of 
a mystery, Craye!” he said. “If there isn’t 
one she’ll invent one.” 

“Is there no mystery in this matter, then?” 
I asked. “It seems to me that there’s a pretty 
handsome one. But evidently not to you— 
you’re in the inside of things, you see, 
Mr. Parslewe.” 

“Aye, well,” he answered. “I dare say I 
see the game from another angle. However, 
I’m not quite so thickheaded as not to realise 
that what’s pretty plain to me mayn’t be at 
all plain to other folk, and I’m going to let 


One Minute Past Midnight 143 

you into a bit of my confidence. Come down¬ 
stairs to the smoking-room, and we’ll have 
these windows opened—this room’s got a 
bit stuffy.” 

He rang the bell and gave some orders 
about ventilating the room and about having 
some light supper laid there for eleven o’clock 
that evening (in readiness, he said in an 
aside to me, for our return from the play), 
and then led me down to a quiet corner of 
the smoking-room. And there, having first 
lighted another cigar, he proceeded to divest 
the copper box of the neat wrappings in 
which Madrasia had carried it from Kelpie- 
shaw. He set it on the little table before us, 
and we both stared at it. He, in particular, 
stared at it so hard that I began to think the 
mere sight of the thing was hypnotising him. 
Suddenly he started, and began to fumble in 
his waistcoat pocket. 

“Aye,” he muttered, more to himself than 
to me. “I shouldn’t wonder if it is so!” 

With that he pulled out of his waistcoat 
pocket a tiny foot-rule, ivory, in folding sec¬ 
tions, and, opening the copper box, measured 
its interior depth. Then he measured the 


144 Th e Copper Box 

exterior depth, and turned to me with one of 
his dangerously sweet smiles. 

“The devil!” he exclaimed. “Craye!— 
there’s a false bottom to this box! I’ve been 
suspecting that for the last half-hour, and by 
all that is, it’s true!” 

I was beginning to get excited, and I 
stared at the box as hard as he had done. 

“You make that out by measurement?” I 
asked. 

“Precisely! There’s a difference of a 
quarter of an inch between the interior and 
exterior depths,” he replied. “That means 
there’s the very slightest of cavities, but ample 
to conceal—what?” 

“Nothing much, I should think,” said I. 

“No; but I’ve heard of very important and 
fateful things going into small compass,” he 
remarked. “Anyway, there it is! You can’t 
get away from the measurements. There’s a 
space—there! And there’ll be some trick of 
opening the thing from the bottom—probably 
connected with these feet.” 

He pointed to the four circular knobs on 
which the copper box rested, but made no 
attempt to touch them; his thoughts seemed 



One Minute Past Midnight 145 

- -v 

to be otherwhere. And after thinking a little, 
he suddenly turned to me confidentially. 

“I told you I’d tell you something,” he said. 
“You’re a dependable chap, Craye—I showed 
that by leaving the girl in your charge. She 
likes you, too, and I suppose you two young 
people will fall in love with each other if you 
haven’t done so already, and if you have, my 
lad—all right! You’ll make a big name in 
your art—but never mind that; I’ll tell you a 
bit about this box. Not how it came into my 
possession; the time for that is not yet. But 
when I did get it it was locked, and I had no 
key to it, and never bothered to get one found 
or made. When it got a wee bit damaged, I 
took it to Bickerdale, here in this town, and 
asked him to put it right. He was a bit wary 
of dealing with it, but said he knew a man who 
would, so I left it with him, and, incidentally, 
asked him, while they were about it, to have 
it unlocked. And now, Craye, now I think 
that while it was in Bickerdale’s hands, or 
in the other man’s hands, something was 
abstracted from that box—something that I 
never knew was in it. Abstracted then— 
unless-” 




146 The Copper Box 

He paused, making a queer, speculating 
grimace. 

“Unless—what?” I asked. 

He leaned nearer to my shoulder, dropping 
his voice, though there was no one at all 
near us. 

“Unless it was abstracted at Kelpieshaw 
yesterday, by that chap Weech!” he replied. 
“Weech? Augustus? What a name!” 

“Weech!” I exclaimed. “By him! Impos¬ 
sible!” 

“And why impossible, my lad?” he asked. 
“No impossibility about it! Didn’t you tell 
me just now, upstairs, while you were giving 
your account of all that had transpired, that 
you and Madrasia went up to my library to 
compare the titles of the books in The Times 
advertisement with certain volumes on my 
shelves, leaving Master Augustus Weech 
alone—with the copper box in front of him? 
Of course!” 

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “I certainly 
never thought of that!” 

“No doubt,” he remarked coolly. “But I 
did. However, now we come to another mat¬ 
ter, though connected with the main one. I 



One Minute Past Midnight 147 

have business to-night which, I hope, will illu¬ 
minate me as to if anything was in the box or 
has been abstracted from it since—by Weeds 
—and I want you to do two or three things 
for me, chiefly in the way of looking after 
Madrasia. We’ll dine early, to begin with. 
Then you can take her to the play—here are 
the tickets while I remember them. When 
you come back, you’ll find a bit of supper in 
that private sitting-room. Before you go, I 
shall tell Madrasia that I may be very late in 
coming in, so after supper she’ll go to bed. 
Now comes in a job for you! I want you to 
wait up, in that sitting-room, until twelve 
o’clock—midnight. If I’m not in by exactly 
twelve”—here he paused and produced a 
sealed envelope which he placed in my hand—- 
“put on your overcoat, and take that round, 
yourself, to the police station—it’s not far off 
—ask to see a responsible person, and hand it 
to him. Do you understand?” 

“Every word!” said I. “But—police? Do 
you anticipate danger?” 

“Not so much danger as difficulty, though 
I won’t deny that there may be danger,” he 
answered. “But do what I say. You’ll find 


148 The Copper Box 

an inspector on night duty—he’ll know my 
name when he reads my note, because I’m a 
county magistrate. If he asks you a question 
or two, answer. And, if you like, go with him 
if he goes himself, or with whoever he sends. 
Is it all clear?—midnight?” 

“It’s all clear,” I replied, putting the sealed 
envelope in my pocket. “And I’ll carry it 
out. But I hope you’re not running into per¬ 
sonal danger, Mr. Parslewe!” 

His lips tightened, and he looked away, as 
if to intimate that that was a matter he 
wouldn’t discuss, and presently he began to 
talk about something of a totally different 
nature. I wanted to ask him what I should 
do supposing anything did happen to him, 
but I dared not; I saw well enough that he had 
done with things for the time being, and that 
there was nothing to be done but to carry out 
his instructions. 

We dined quietly downstairs at half-past 
six; when, nearly an hour later, Madrasia and 
I drove off to the theatre, we left Parslewe 
calmly chatting to an old gentleman in the 
lounge. He waved his cigar to us as we 
passed, then called Madrasia back. 


One Minute Past Midnight 149 

“You go to bed when you get in, child,” he 
said. “At least, when you’ve had some supper. 
Don’t wait for me; I mayn’t he in till the 
early hours.” 

Then he waved her off, and we went away, 
Madrasia mildly excited at the thought of the 
play, and I feeling uncommonly anxious and 
depressed. For the possibilities of the situ¬ 
ation which might arise at midnight were not 
pleasant to contemplate, and the more I 
thought about them the less I liked them. It 
was useless to deny that Parslewe was a 
strange, even an eccentric man, who would do 
things in his own fashion, and I was suffi¬ 
ciently learned in the ways of the world, 
young as I was, to know that such men run 
into danger. Where was he going that night, 
and to do—what ? Evidently on some mission 
which might need police interference. And 
supposing that interference came along too 
late? What was I to do then? When all was 
said and done, and in spite of what he had 
said about myself and Madrasia in his easy¬ 
going fashion, I was almost a stranger to him 
and to her, and I foresaw complications if 
anything serious happened to him. I did not 


150 The Copper Box 

particularly love Parslewe that evening; I 
thought he might have given me more of his 
confidence. But there it was! and there was 
Madrasia. And Madrasia seemed to have been 
restored to a more serene state of mind by 
this rejoining of her guardian; evidently she 
possessed a sound belief in Parslewe’s powers. 

“Did he tell you anything this afternoon 
when I was out shopping?” she inquired sud¬ 
denly as we rode up Grey Street. “I’m sure 
you must have talked.” 

“Well,” I answered. “A little. He thinks 
the copper box has a false bottom, a narrow 
cavity, in it, and that something has been con¬ 
cealed there, and stolen from it. Possibly by 
our friend Weech.” 

“Weech!” she exclaimed. “When?” 

“'When we left him alone with the box 
while we went up to the library,” I replied. 
“Of course, that’s possible—if Weech knew 
the secret.” 

This seemed to fill her with new ideas. 

“I wonder!” she said, musingly. “And is 
—is that what he’s after, here, in New¬ 
castle?” 

“Something of the sort,” I assented. “At 


One Minute Past Midnight 151 

least, I gather so. You know what he is—- 
better than I do.” 

She sat for a time in silence—in fact, till 
the cab drew up at the theatre. Then she 
spoke. 

“There’s one thing about Jimmie,” she re- 
marked, reassuringly, “nobody will get the 
better of him! So let him work things out.” 

I did not tell her that there was no question 
of choice on my part. We saw the play which 
Parslewe had commended so highly; we went 
back to the hotel; we had supper together; 
then Madrasia went off to her room. And it 
was then twenty minutes to twelve, and I sat 
out every one of them, waiting, watching the 
door, listening for a step in the corridor with¬ 
out. But Parslewe did not come. 

And at one minute past twelve I seized my 
overcoat and cap and left the room. 

















IX 


The Whitesmith 9 s Parlour 


T HERE were few people about in the big 
hall of the hotel, but amongst them was 
the principal hall-porter, who, as I came 
there, appeared to be handing over his duties 
to his deputy for the night. An idea occurred 
to me, and I went up to him, drawing him 
aside. 

4 ‘You know Mr. Parslewe?” I asked. 

“Mr. Parslewe, sir—yes, sir!” he answered. 
“Have you seen him go out this evening?” 
“Yes, sir. Mr. Parslewe went out just 
about eleven, sir—not many minutes before 
you came in with the young lady.” 

“You haven’t seen him come in again?” 
“Not yet, sir—not been in since then.” 

I nodded, and went out into the street. So 
Parslewe’s business, whatever it was, had been 
fixed for a late hour, after eleven. He might 

have gone with us to the theatre, then! 

153 


154 The Copper Box 

Unless, indeed, he had been doing other busi¬ 
ness at the hotel. But it was no use speculat¬ 
ing on these things, my job was to do his 
bidding. And it was not cowardice on my 
part that I heartily disliked the doing of it. 
I had no idea as to the whereabouts of the 
police station. Parslewe had said it was close 
by, but I did not know in which direction. I 
might have inquired in the hotel, but I did not 
wish the hotel people to know that we were or 
were about to be mixed up with the police; it 
might have got to Madrasia’s ears before 
I got back. There were still people in the 
streets, I could ask my way. And just then, 
as I might have expected, a policeman came 
round the comer, and at my question directed 
me. Parslewe had been quite correct, the 
place was close at hand. 

I went in, wonderingly, having never been 
in such a building before, and not knowing 
what to expect, I had no more idea of what 
a police headquarters was like than of the 
interior of an Eastern palace, perhaps less. 
It was all very ordinary, when I got inside; 
there was a well-lighted office, with a counter, 
and tables, and desks; three or four police- 


The Whitesmitli s Parlour 155 

men stood or sat about, examining papers or 
writing in books. One of them, seeing me 
approach the counter and probably noticing 
my diffident and greenhorn air, got off his 
stool, put his pen behind his ear, and came 
across with an almost fatherly solicitude on 
his fresh-coloured face. 

“Can I see some responsible official?” I 
asked. 

He half turned, indicating a man who wore 
braid on his closely buttoned tunic, and sat 
at a desk in the corner. 

“Inspector, sir,” he said. “Speak to him.” 

He lifted a hinged door in the counter, and 
I went across to the man in question. He 
looked up as I drew near, and gave me a swift 
glance from top to toe. I had a vague sense 
of thankfulness that I was well dressed. 

“Yes!” he said. 

I got close to him. Possibly I looked mys¬ 
terious—anyway, I felt so. 

“You know Mr. James Parslewe of Kelpie- 
shaw, near Wooler?” I suggested. 

“Yes!” 

“Mr. Parslewe is staying at the North 
Eastern Station Hotel. I am staying there 


156 The Copper Box 

with him. He asked me, in case of a certain 
eventuality- ’ 5 

He interrupted me with an almost imper¬ 
ceptible smile—amused, I think, at my 
precision of language. 

“What eventuality?” 

4 

“In case he was not back at his hotel by 
midnight, I was to bring and give you this 
note from him,” I answered, and laid the 
letter on his desk. “He was not back— so I 
came straight to you.” 

He picked up and opened the letter and 
began to read it; from where I stood I could 
see that it covered three sides of a sheet of 
the hotel notepaper. There was not a sign 
of anything—surprise, perplexity, wonder— 
on the man’s face as he read—and he only 
read the thing over once. Then he folded 
the letter, put it in his desk, and turned to 
me. 

“Mr. Alvery Craye, I think?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said I. 

“Do you know what’s in this letter, Mr. 
Craye?” he went on. “Did Mr. Parslewe tell 
you its contents?” 

“No,” I replied. “But he said I could 



The Whitesmith's Parlour 157 

answer any questions you asked, and, if you 
go anywhere in consequence of the letter, I 
could go with you.” 

“I’ve only one question,” he remarked. 
“Do you know what time Mr. Parslewe left 
the hotel?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I found that out. He left 
just about eleven—a few minutes before, I 
gathered from the hall-porter.” 

He nodded, turned a key in his desk, put 
the key in his pocket, rose, and asking me 
to sit down a moment, went across the room 
and through a door at its farther extremity. 
Within a couple of minutes he was back 
again, in company with a man in plain clothes; 
he himself had put on a uniform overcoat and 
peaked cap. He made some whispered com¬ 
munication to a sergeant who was busily writ¬ 
ing at a table in the centre of the room; then 
he beckoned to me, and the three of us went 
out into the night. 

At that moment I had not the slightest idea 
as to our destination. There was a vague 
notion, utterly cloudy, in my mind that we 
might be going to some dark and unsavoury 
quarter of the city; I had been in Newcastle 


158 The Copper Box 

two or three times previously, and in my wan¬ 
derings had realised that it harboured some 
slums which were quite as disreputable as any¬ 
thing you can find in Liverpool or Cardiff. 
But my companions turned up town, towards 
the best parts of the place. It was quiet in 
those spacious and stately streets, and the 
echo of our footsteps sounded eerie in the 
silence. Nobody spoke until we had walked 
some distance; then the inspector turned 
to me. 

“Did Mr. Parslewe speak to you of any 
possible danger, Mr. Craye, as regards what 
he was after?” he asked. 

“I’ll tell you precisely what he did say,” 
I answered. “He said, ‘Not so much danger 
as difficulty, though I won’t deny that there 
may be danger.’ His exact words!” 

“Just so,” he remarked. “And he didn’t 
tell you much more?” 

“He told me nothing, except that he was 
hoping to get hold of a possible something,” 
I replied. “If you know Mr. Parslewe, you 
know that on occasion, when it suits him, he 
can be both vague and ambiguous.” 

“I know Mr. Parslewe—well enough!” he 


The Whitesmith's Parlour 159 

answered, with a sly chuckle. “Highly eccen¬ 
tric gentleman, Mr. Parslewe, and uncom¬ 
monly fond of having his own way, and going 
his own way, and taking his own line about 
everything. There isn’t one of his brother 
magistrates in all Northumberland who isn’t 
aware of that, Mr. Craye! Then, you have no 
idea of where we are going just now?” 

“No idea whatever!” I answered. 

“Well, as he said you could go with us, I 
may as well tell you,” he remarked, with an¬ 
other laugh. “We’re going to the house and 
shop of one Bickerdale, a whitesmith and cop¬ 
persmith, in a side street just up here. That’s 
where Mr. Parslewe’s gone.” 

Of course, I might have known it! I felt 
myself an ass for not having thought of it be¬ 
fore. But I started, involuntarily. 

“The name seems familiar to you,” sug¬ 
gested the inspector. 

“Yes, I know it!” I asserted. “I’ve been 
in that shop. Oh! so he’s there, is he?” 

“That’s where we’re to look for him, any¬ 
way,” he replied. “But whether we do find 
him there, or, if we do, under what conditions 
it’ll be, that I don’t know. However, we’re 


160 The Copper Box 

carrying out his instructions, and here’s Jfee 
corner of the street.” 

I knew that corner well enough, and the 
street, too. It was there that I had shadowed 
White Whiskers and the Newcastle solicitor, 
and thence that I had retreated after my 
passage at arms with Bickerdale. Presently 
we stood before the side door of Bickerdale’s 
shop, the door which presumably led to his 
house at the rear. There was no light visible 
through the transom over the door, none in 
the shop window, none in the windows over 
the shop. And when the plain-clothes man, in 
response to the inspector’s order, rang the bell 
and knocked in addition, no reply came. 

It was not until we had knocked and rung 
three times, each more loudly and urgently, 
that we heard sounds inside the door. They 
were the sounds of somebody cautiously 
drawing back a bolt and turning a key. But 
no light showed through keyhole or letter-box, 
or the glass in the transom, and the inspector 
gave his man a whispered instruction. 

“Turn your lamp full on whoever opens the 
door!” he said. “And get a foot over the 
threshold.” 


The Whitesmith's Parlour l6x 

I held my breath as the door was opened. 
It moved back; the plain-clothes man’s light 
from a bull’s-eye lantern flashed on a fright¬ 
ened, inquiring face looking round the edge 
of the door. 

Weechl 

I could have laughed aloud as Weech 
turned and fled, for he let out a squeal at 
the sight of us, and bolted for all the world 
like a frightened rabbit. And, of course, he 
left the door wide open, and we were at once 
on his heels, and after him down the passage. 
He swept aside a curtain, flung open a door 
behind it, and burst into a well-lighted par¬ 
lour or living-room with a sharp cry of 
warning. 

“Police!” 

I got a full view of the men in that room 
in one quick glance from between the two 
policemen as they walked in. There was a 
table in its centre, an oblong table; at our end 
of it, with his back to us, sat Parslewe, calmly 
smoking a cigar; at the other, morose, per¬ 
plexed, defiant, sat Bickerdale. And behind 
Bickerdale, leaning against a dresser or side¬ 
board, stood Pawley! 


162 The Copper Box 

These three all looked towards us as we 
entered, each with a different expression. 
Bickerdale’s face became angry, almost sav¬ 
age; Pawley appeared, after his first glance 
of surprise, to be intensely annoyed. But 
Parslewe, half turning, motioned to the 
inspector and whispered a few words to him; 
the inspector, his plain-clothes man, and my¬ 
self remained after that in the doorway by 
which we had entered, and Parslewe gave his 
attention to Bickerdale, to whose side, near 
the fireplace, Weech, still nervous and upset, 
had made his way round the table. 

“Now then, Bickerdale!” he said. “With¬ 
out any more to do about it, you’ll give me 
that document—you, or Weech, or both of 
you! Do you hear—hand it over!” 

“No!” exclaimed Pawley. “I object. If 
there’s any handing over, Mr. Parslewe, it’ll 
be to me. And as you’ve brought police here, 
I’d better say at once that-” 

Parslewe suddenly rose from his chair. He 
held up his left hand—towards Pawley. 
There was something in the gesture that made 
Pawley break off short in his words and 
remain silent. As for Parslewe’s right hand, 



The Whitesmith's Parlour 163 

it went into his pocket and brought out his 
cigar case. Silently he handed it to the in¬ 
spector, motioning him to help himself and to 
pass it to his man. Then he turned to Pawley 
again. 

“Mr. Pawley!’’ he said in his most matter- 
of-fact tones. “It’s very evident to me that 
you and I had better have a little conversa¬ 
tion in strict privacy. Bickerdale!—where 
have you a spare room?” 

Bickerdale turned to Weech, growling 
something that sounded more like a curse 
than an intimation. But Weech opened a 
door in the rear of the room, and revealed a 
lighted kitchen place, and Parslewe, motion¬ 
ing Pawley to follow him, went within. The 
door closed on them. 

They were in that kitchen a good half-hour. 
As for those of us—five men—who were left 
in the sitting-room, we kept to our respective 
camps. Bickerdale and Weech, at their end 
of the place, hung together, eyeing us fur¬ 
tively, and occasionally whispering. Weech 
in particular looked venomous, and by that 
time I had come to the conclusion that he had 
bluffed Madrasia and myself very cleverly on 


164 The Copper Box 

the occasion of his visit to Kelpieshaw. As 
for the inspector and his man and myself, we 
sat in a line, on three very stiff-seated, 
straight-backed chairs, smoking Parslewe’s 
cigars, for lack of anything better to do, and 
watched and waited. Only once during that 
period of suspense did any of us speak; that 
was when the inspector, happening to catch 
my eye, gave me a quiet whisper. 

“Queer business, Mr. Craye!” he said. 
“Odd!” 

“Very,” said I. 

He smiled and looked round at his man. 
But the man was one of those stolid-faced 
individuals who seem as if nothing could 
move them; also, he appeared to be relishing 
Parslewe’s cigar. With this in one corner 
of his lips he sat immovable, watching the door 
through which Parslewe and Pawley had van¬ 
ished. I think he never took his eyes off it; 
anyway, my recollection of him is as of a man 
who could sit down and watch a thing or a 
person for hours and hours and hours, without 
as much as flickering an eyelid—an uncanny, 
uncomforting man—doubtless fitted, by some 
freak of nature, to his trade of sleuth-hound. 


The Whitesmith's Parlour 165 

As for me, I was wondering all round the 
affair. What was Parslewe after? What was 
Pawley doing there? Who was Pawley, any¬ 
way? Why, at that juncture, when his rein¬ 
forcements had come up, did Parslewe want 
to parley with Pawley? For a parley it was 
that was going on in that kitchen, without a 
doubt. We heard nothing; there were no 
raised voices, no evidence of any angry or 
wordy discussion. All we heard was an occa¬ 
sional whisper from Weech, a muttered growl 
from Bickerdale in response. But on the 
hearth a kettle was singing, and at a corner of 
the rug, near Bickerdale’s slippered feet, a cat 
sat and purred and purred. . . . 

The door of the kitchen suddenly opened; 
just as suddenly I saw that whatever had 
been said, or whatever had taken place in that 
kitchen, a marvellous transformation had 
developed in Pawley’s manner. He held open 
the door for Parslewe, and stood aside defer¬ 
entially as Parslewe passed him. When he 
followed Parslewe into the parlour it was 
with the air of a man who has either met his 
master or been made subject to some revela¬ 
tion. And it was he who spoke first—in 


166 The Copper Box 

answer to a nod from Parslewe. He turned 
to Bickerdale. 

“Mr. Bickerdale!” he said in suave, placa¬ 
tory tones. “I think you’d better do what 
Mr. Parslewe asks! I—I’ve had some con¬ 
versation with Mr. Parslewe, and—and I 
think that’s what you’d better do, Mr. Bicker- 
dale—just so!” 

Bickerdale turned on him with a sudden 
glare which denoted nothing but sheer sur¬ 
prise. I could see that the man was fairly 
astonished—amazed. 

“Why—why!” he exclaimed. “It was you 
—you!—that told me just now to do nothing 
of the sort!” 

Pawley smiled in a queer, sickly, deprecat¬ 
ing sort of fashion. 

“Circumstances alter cases, Mr. Bicker¬ 
dale,” he said. “I—I didn’t know then what 
I know now. My advice is, now—do as Mr. 
Parslewe wants.” 

Weech sprang to his feet—an epitome of 
anger and chagrin. 

“But us!” he vociferated. “Us—me and 
him! What are we going to get out of it? 
Where shall we profit?” He turned almost 



The Whitesmith's Parlour 167 

savagely on Bickerdale. “Don’t!” he went 
on. “Don’t you do it! Never mind those fel¬ 
lows over there! there’s no police business in 

this that I know of, and-” 

“I’ll give you in charge of the police in two 
minutes, my lad!” said Parslewe suddenly. 

“Just to show you-” 

“Mr. Bickerdale,” said Pawley. “Take 
my advice! I—I understand—from Mr. 
Parslewe—you’ll not be a loser.” 

Bickerdale gave him a searching look. 
Then, suddenly, he thrust a hand into his 
inner breast pocket and drew out a small 
square envelope, which, with equal quickness, 
he handed across the table to Parslewe. In 
its passage, the light from the lamp gleamed 
upon this envelope; it seemed to me that I 
saw a crest on the flap. 

“Bid of it now, anyway!” growled Bick¬ 
erdale, sullenly. “Done!” 

We were all watching Parslewe. He drew 
back to a corner of the room, where a second 
lamp stood on a wall bracket. Beneath this 
he turned the envelope over, examining it 
back and front; I saw then that it had been 
slit open by Bickerdale or Weech, or some- 




168 The Copper Box 

body through whose hands it had passed. And 
out of it Parslewe drew what seemed to be an 
ordinary sheet of notepaper. Whatever was 
written on it, he had read through in a 
minute. There were six pairs of eyes watch¬ 
ing him, but you might as well have hoped to 
get news out of a stone wall as gain any infor¬ 
mation from his face; it was more inscrutable 
and impassive than I had ever seen it. He 
showed nothing—and suddenly he thrust 
paper and envelope into his pocket, sat down 
at the table, pulled out a cheque-book and a 
fountain-pen, and began to write. A moment 
later, he threw a cheque across to Bickerdale; 
then, without a word to him, or to Weech, or 
to Pawley, he strode out, motioning us to 
follow. 

We made a little procession down town. 
Parslewe and the inspector walked first; I 
heard them talking about county business— 
the levying of a new rate, or some triviality 
of that sort. The plain-clothes man and I 
brought up the rear; we talked about the 
weather, and he told me that he had an allot¬ 
ment garden somewhere on the outskirts and 
wanted rain for what he had just planted. 


The Whitesmith's Parlour 169 

Presently we all parted, and Parslewe and I 
went to the hotel and up to the private sitting- 
room. There was whisky and soda on the side¬ 
board, and he mixed a couple of glasses, 
handed me one, and drank his own off at a 
draught. Then, when I had finished mine, he 
gave me a questioning look. 

“Bed, my lad?” he suggested. “Just so! 
Come on, then—your room’s next to mine; 
we’ll go together.” We walked along the 
corridor outside. “Do you want an idea— 
not an original one—to go to bed with, 
Craye?” he asked abruptly, as we reached our 
doors. “I’ll give you one. There are some 
damned queer things in this world!” 

Then, with one of his loud, sardonic peals 
of laughter, he shook my hand and shot into 
his room. 


4 


X 


Known at the Crown 

T he various doings of that evening had 
not been of a nature that conduced to 
sleep, and I lay awake for a long time wonder¬ 
ing about them. Naturally, my speculations 
chiefly ran on what I had seen in Bickerdale’s 
back parlour. How came Pawley there? 
What did Parslewe say to Pawley in that 
kitchen that made Pawley suddenly trans¬ 
formed into a state of almost servile acquies¬ 
cence in Parslewe’s further doings? What 
was the document that Bickerdale handed 
over to Parslewe? Had Bickerdale found it 
during his repairing of the copper box, or had 
Augustus Weech abstracted it when Madrasia 
and I left him alone in the parlour at Kelpie- 
shaw? All these questions ran helter-skelter 
through my brain as I lay there, anything but 
sleepy, and, needless to say, I hadn’t satisfac¬ 
torily answered one of them when at last I 

171 


17 2 The Copper Box 

dropped off to a more or less uneasy slumber. 
The truth was that in spite of various devel¬ 
opments the whole thing, at two o’clock that 
morning, was to me a bigger and more exas¬ 
perating mystery than ever. 

And it was still there when I woke, sharply, 
at six o’clock; so much so, indeed, that I felt 
as if I should like to march into Parslewe’s 
room next door, shake him out of his no doubt 
sound sleep, and tell him that he’d got to make 
a clean breast of things, there and then. As 
I knew no man in the world less likely to be 
forced into confession until such time as he 
chose to speak, I took another course to calm 
my perplexed state of mind. I rose, shaved, 
dressed, and going downstairs, went out into 
the big station. Railway stations, at any hour 
of the day, but especially early in the morn¬ 
ing, have a fascination for me—the goings 
and comings of the first trains, the gradually 
increasing signs of waking up, the arrival of 
the newspapers and opening of the bookstalls, 
even the unloading and carrying away of the 
milk cans, are sources of mighty attraction. 
I lounged about for some time, watching and 
observing; finally, as the hands of the clock 


Known at the Crown 173 

pointed to seven, and knowing that neither 
Parslewe nor Madrasia would be ready for 
breakfast much before nine, I turned into the 
refreshment room for a cup of coffee. And 
there at the counter, a suit-case at his feet 
and a rug over his arm, stood Pawley. 

Pawley gave me a smile which was half 
bland and half sickly, and wholly mysterious. 
And suddenly feeling that I had as good a 
right as another to indulge an entirely natural 
sense of inquisitiveness, I went up to him and 
bade him good morning. He responded 
civilly enough, and it struck me that he was 
rather glad to see me and not indisposed to 
talk. He was eating bread and butter and 
sipping tea; I got some coffee and biscuits, 
and for a moment or two we stood side by 
side, silent. But I had an idea that Pawley 
wanted me to speak. 

“ Leaving ?” I asked, with a glance at his 
belongings. 

“That’s it, Mr. Craye,” he replied, almost 
eagerly. “By the seven-forty, sir. I’m 
through with my job after last night.” 

I noticed a difference in his tone and man¬ 
ner. He was no longer the amateur antiquary, 


174 


The Copper Box 

affecting a knowledge and a jargon carefully 
acquired; he talked like what he probably was, 
an inquiry agent of some sort. And in conso¬ 
nance with my previous feeling of intuition, 
I thought that however much he might keep 
back, he was not against communicating some 
of his knowledge. 

“Last night’s proceedings,” I remarked, 
“were somewhat mysterious, Mr. Pawley.” 

“Mysterious!” he exclaimed. “I believe 
you! I’ve been concerned in some queer 
things in my time, Mr. Craye, but in none 
queerer than this! Beyond me! But no doubt 
you know more than I do.” 

“I know nothing,” I answered. “Nothing, 
that is, beyond what I’ve seen. And what I’ve 
seen I haven’t understood. For instance, I 
didn’t understand how you came to be at Bick- 
erdale’s last night.” 

“Oh, that’s easy!” he said. “I was left here 
to keep an eye on Bicker dale and to get in 
touch with him. And, incidentally, to find 
out, if I could, whether Bickerdale had dis¬ 
covered anything in that copper box when he 
had it.” 

“Did anybody suspect that something 


Known at the Crown 175 

might have been concealed in the copper box?” 
I asked. 

“To be sure, Mr. Craye! Sir Charles 
Sperrigoe suspected—does suspect. That’s 
what he sent me up here for—to take a pre¬ 
liminary look round. Then—came himself. 
Gone back now—but kept me here for a day 
or two. To watch Bickerdale—as I said. And 
last night, just as I was hoping to worm some¬ 
thing out of Bickerdale and his son-in-law, 
that ratty little chap—Weech—in walks Mr. 
Parslewe!” 

“And did—what?” I asked. 

He smiled, enigmatically. 

“Mr. Parslewe, sir, is an odd gentleman!” 
he answered. “You’ll know that by now, I 
think, Mr. Craye, though I understand you’re 
almost a stranger to him. Well—Mr. Pars¬ 
lewe, he lost no time. He told Bickerdale 
that he knew he’d found a document in a 
secret place in that copper box—he’d the cop¬ 
per box with him, and he showed us the trick 
of opening it.” 

“Oh, he did, did he?” I interrupted, in 
surprise. “Found it out, eh?” 

“He knew it, anyway,” replied Pawley. 


176 The Copper Box 

“It’s done by unscrewing the feet—the little 
knobs—that the thing stands on. And he 
demanded of Bickerdale that he should hand 
that document over there and then! Sharp!” 

“And—what then?” I inquired. 

Pawley poured out more tea, and stirred it 
thoughtfully. 

“That was where I came in,” he said. “I 
objected—as representing Sir Charles Sper- 
rigoe. I said he was the proper person to 
have any document, and I was his representa¬ 
tive. We were disputing that, and Bickerdale 
was getting more obstinate about handing 
anything over to anybody till he knew what he 
was getting out of it, when you and those 
police chaps arrived. And the rest you know, 
Mr. Craye.” 

“On the contrary,” said I, “I don’t! I don’t 
know anything. What happened between you 
and Mr. Parslewe in that kitchen?” 

But at that he shook his head, and I saw 
that there were things he wouldn’t tell. 

“As to that, Mr. Craye,” he answered, “Mr. 
Parslewe’s closed my lips! But he’s a gentle¬ 
man of his word, and after what he said to me, 
I’d no choice, sir, no choice at all, but to fall 


Known at the Crown 177 

in with his suggestion that the document 
should be handed over to him. I couldn’t do 
anything else—after what he told me. But as 
to what he told me—mum is the word, Mr. 
Craye!—mum! At present.” 

“Have you any idea what that document 
is?” I asked, going at last straight to a prin¬ 
cipal point. 

“None!” he replied quickly. “But—I’ve a 
very good idea!” 

“What, then?” I put it to him. “I’d give a 
good deal to know.” 

He glanced round, as if he feared to be 
overheard, though there was no one near us. 

“Well,” he said. “Have you heard of an 
old gentleman named Palkeney, Mr. Matthew 
Palkeney, of Palkeney Manor, away there in 
the Midlands, who died some little time ago, 
leaving money and a fine place and no rela¬ 
tives, and from whose library that copper box 
and those books were undoubtedly stolen?” 

“I’ve heard of him—and of the rest,” I 
replied. 

“Just so,” he said. “Well, Mr. Craye, 
between you and me, it’s my belief that the 
document Mr. Parslewe got from Bicker- 




178 The Copper Box 

dale last night—or, rather, early this morn¬ 
ing—was neither more nor less than Mr. 
Matthew Palkeney’s will, which the old fellow 
—a queer old stick!—had hidden in that cop¬ 
per box! That’s what I think!” 

“Is it known that he made any will?” I 
asked. 

“In the ordinary way, no,” he answered. 
“But things come out. This would have come 
out before, but for the slowness of country 
folk to tell anything. Sperrigoes, as the old 
gentleman’s solicitors, have never been able to 
find any will, or trace of any. But recently— 
quite recently—they’ve come across this—a 
couple of men on the estate, one a woodman, 
the other a gamekeeper, have come forward to 
say that some time ago they set their names 
to a paper which they saw their old master 
sign his name to. What’s that but a will, Mr. 
Craye? Come!” 

“It sounds like it,” I agreed. “And you 
think that it was that that Mr. Parslewe recov¬ 
ered last night?” 

“I do,” he answered. “For I’ve heard— 
Sir Charles told me himself—that when the 
old man was struck down and lay dying, all 



Known at the Crown 179 

he spoke of—as far as they could make out 
—was the copper box, coupled with the family 
name. Mr. Craye, I think he hid that will in 
the copper box, and that Mr. Parslewe now 
has it in his pocket!” 

It seemed a probable suggestion, and I 
nodded my assent. 

“I suppose we shall hear,” I said. 

Pawley picked up his suit-case. 

“I must go to my train,” he said. “Hear?” 
Yes—and see, too, Mr. Craye! I think you’ll 
hear and see some queer things within this 
next day or two, if you’re remaining in Mr. 
Parslewe’s company. But, I’ll say this—Mr. 
Parslewe, though unmistakably a queer, a very 
queer, eccentric gentleman, is a straight ’un, 
and whatever he got from Bickerdale, it’s safe 
with him. Otherwise I shouldn’t be going 
south. And, as I say, if you’re stopping with 
Mr. Parslewe, I think you’ll have some enter¬ 
tainment. Better than a tale, I call it!” 

He said good morning at that, and went 
off to his train, and after buying a morning 
newspaper, I turned into the hotel and went 
up to the private sitting-room. And then, 
presently, came Madrasia. 


180 The Copper Box 

I was not going to say anything to 
Madrasia—I mean, as regarded the events of 
the night. Fortunately, she asked no ques¬ 
tions—about the past, at any rate; her sole 
concern seemed to be about the immediate 
future. There was a waiter in the room, lay¬ 
ing the table for breakfast, when she came in; 
she and I withdrew into the embrasure of the 
window, looking out on streets that had 
now grown busy. 

“Have you seen him this morning?” she 
asked significantly. “No? Did you see him 
last night?” 

“For a few minutes,” I answered. 

“Did he say what we’re going to do to¬ 
day?” she inquired. 

“Not a word!” said I. “Said nothing!” 

“Not even whether we’re going home or not 
—or anything?” she demanded. “No? But 
what are we here for?” 

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Ask him!” 

“Might as well ask the man on that monu¬ 
ment!” she retorted, pointing out of the win¬ 
dow. “I feel like a marionette!—with Jimmie 
pulling the strings just as he pleases.” 

“Do you mind?” I asked. 


Known at the Crown 181 

“Well, it does seem as if one hadn’t a mind 
or a will of one’s own,” she said. “Look here! 
—if he comes to breakfast with some new 
scheme, or plan, or mad notion, what are you 
going to do—yourself ?” 

I gave her a purposely steady look. 

“Fall in with it,” I answered. 

“You are!” she exclaimed. “Why?” 

“Nothing else to do,” I replied. 

She regarded me steadily for a while. 

“I hope he hasn’t hypnotised us,” she said. 
“Seems to me he’s only got to lift a finger 
and we walk after him like lambs!” 

“Rather amusing, though, after all,” I 
observed. “Adds variety to life. He may 
have something quite exciting in store for us 
to-day.” 

“Oh, well,” she said. “If you like to be led 
about like a performing bear—however, here 
he is!” 

Parslewe and breakfast came together. He 
had evidently been down to the bookstall to 
buy a financial paper, and he sat, grim and 
fixed of expression, as he ate and drank, and 
read figures and statistics. It was not until 
he had made an end of his food that he be- 



182 The Copper Box 

trayed any particular consciousness of our 
presence. Then, laying down his paper, he 
bent across the table to his ward, favouring 
her with one of his charming smiles. 

“Well, my dear,” he said, “did you buy all 
that you wanted yesterday afternoon?” 

“Yes,” replied Madrasia, promptly, “I 
did.” 

“Enough to last you till you get home?” he 
continued. 

“Quite!” said Madrasia. 

“You didn’t happen to buy a bag, or a case, 
or something to carry your impedimenta in?” 
he asked with a grin. 

“Yes, I did,” retorted Madrasia. “Do you 
think I was going to carry a brown paper 
parcel back to Wooler? I bought a very nice 
bag.” 

“Oh!” he said sweetly. “All right! Then 
you can just go and pack it, my girl, and be 
ready in three quarters of an hour, for we’re 
going.” 

“Going where?” demanded Madrasia. 
“Home?” 

“Not just yet,” he said. “We’re going 
south—by the express. A good way, too, and 


Known at the Crown 183 

we must get seats in the luncheon car. So you 
be ready.” 

Madrasia pointed a slim finger at me. 

“You’ve never asked him!” she exclaimed. 

“That’s all right,” replied Parslewe, calmly. 
“He’s going too. We’re all going. You go 
and pack your duds.” He turned to me as she 
went out of the room and his smile was sweeter 
than ever. “You may as well see it through, 
Craye,” he said. “I think we’ll have about 
settled things up by noon to-morrow. And 
I’ll show you something that’ll appeal to your 
artistic eye. Eh?” 

“In for a penny, in for a pound, Mr. Pars¬ 
lewe,” I replied. “I’m game!—but hanged if 
I know what it’s all about!” 

“I’m not so certain that I know that myself, 
my lad!” he answered. “But I think we’re 
getting near it. Well, be ready!” 

He went off then, and I saw him no more 
until we all met to walk across to the express. 
There was considerable satisfaction in trav¬ 
elling with Parslewe, for he reduced the whole 
thing to the perfection of comfort. He had 
already booked three places and a table in 
the first-class dining-car, armed himself with 


184 The Copper Box 

a heap of magazines and newspapers, and, as 
he said, we had nothing to do but drop on our 
padded seats, put our toes under the table, 
and go away in luxurious idleness. We went 
—but when that train moved out of New¬ 
castle and started on its long journey south¬ 
ward, neither Madrasia nor myself bad the 
faintest idea as to where we were going. I 
think it was much to our credit—especially to 
hers—that we made no inquiry, and allowed 
Parslewe to do just as he liked with us. Cer¬ 
tainly I had some vague, shadowy idea as to 
our destination; probably it was Palkeney 
Manor, or to some place where somebody— 
Sperrigoe, perhaps—lived who had some con¬ 
nection with it. But then—I did not know 
where Palkeney Manor was; Pawley, to be 
sure, had referred to it as being in the Mid¬ 
lands, but the Midlands are wide-stretching. 

Anyway, we remained in that express until, 
after we had had lunch, it ran into Peterbor¬ 
ough. There Parslewe, without notice, 
bundled us out. He treated us to one of his 
sardonic grins when he had shepherded us on 
to the platform. 

“This is where we begin to travel,” he re- 



Known at the Crown 185 

marked, drily. “That was a preliminary—no 
bother about that—all straight running. But 
now-” 

He broke off abruptly, and left us; pres¬ 
ently we saw him in close conversation with 
an official. Madrasia turned to me. 

“Of course, you haven’t the least idea 
where we’re going,” she suggested. 

“If you mean, do I know exactly and pre¬ 
cisely, no!” I answered. “If you mean, do 
I know to within fifty or a hundred miles, 
yes!” 

“Well?” she demanded. 

“I think we’re going into one of the Mid¬ 
land counties,” I said, resignedly. “There 
are several of them. I remember sufficient 
geography to repeat their names if you want 
to hear them.” 

“I don’t!” she answered. “But I wish we 
were there, wherever it is. Where are we 
now? I mean, in relation to where we’re 
going?” 

“A long way off,” I replied, consolingly. 
“That’s what he means when he says we’re 
about to travel. The fact is, we’ve so far been 
on a straight line; now, I suppose, we’ve got 



186 The Copper Box 

to cut across country. We’re in the east, 
and we’ve got to go west.” 

There was a clock over our heads, and 
Madrasia looked at it. We were half-way 
through the afternoon. 

“I suppose we shall land somewhere about 
midnight,” she said. “But it’s just what I 
expected.” 

She was wrong. We travelled a long way, 
to be sure, after leaving Peterborough, and 
I knew, by passing such places as Rugby and 
Warwick, that we were making into the heart 
of mid-England. But at eight o’clock, and at 
a small station, Parslewe had us out of our 
carriage and into a cab; within a few minutes 
we were in the quaint old streets of what 
looked like a mediaeval town. And even then 
we did not know its name; all we knew was 
that he had ordered our driver to carry us to 
the Crown. Presently we were there, and 
saw an old-world hostelry, out of which came 
a very modern hall-porter, who, at sight of 
Parslewe, smiled widely and touched his 
forehead. 

“Glad to see you again, sir!” said this func¬ 
tionary. “Rooms, sir?” 


Known at the Crown 187 

Parslewe looked at the man with a quizzical, 
inquiring glance. 

“So you remember me, do you?” he asked. 
“Eh?” 

“Never forget a face, sir,” replied the hall- 
porter. “This way, sir!” 



XI 


Back to Elizabeth 

W E found ourselves in a wonderful old 
house, a place of nooks and corners, 
old oak, old everything; it would not have 
surprised me if, as I made my way along its 
queer passages and stairways, I had met men 
in ruffs and women in farthingales. But it 
was modern enough in its present adminis¬ 
tration, and they served us with a capital 
dinner, late as it was in the evening. That 
and the charm of our surroundings put 
Madrasia and myself into a better humour 
than we had been in during the last tiresome 
stages of our long journey. I think that by 
that time we were both inclined to enter into 
the spirit of the thing; it was, after all, an 
adventure that had possibilities. And in the 
middle of dinner Madrasia, with a whimsical 
laugh and a roguish sparkle in her eyes, bent 
towards Parslewe, who, as usual, was uncon- 

189 


190 The Copper Box 

cerned, phlegmatic, and apparently quite at 
home. 

“If it’s not stripping away too many of the 
wrappings of your precious mystery, Jimmie,” 
she said, “may one ask a question?” 

“Aye, why not?” he answered. “As long 
as it’s sensible.” 

“Sensible enough,” she retorted. “Where 
are we?” 

“Just so!” said I. “The same question 
has suggested itself to me, limited as my 
intelligence is. For I don’t know!” 

Parslewe regarded us with calm eyes and 
manner. 

“We’re in the ancient and eminently pic¬ 
turesque and very comfortable Crown Hotel 
at Medminster,” he answered. “Which stands 
in the Market Place, and commands a 
remarkable view of one of the last bits of 
mediaeval England, as you can read in the 
guide books, and, better still, see for your¬ 
selves in the morning.” 

“Medminster,” exclaimed Madrasia. “But 
that’s where old Sperrigoe comes from! At 
least, that was the address given in The Times 
advertisement that Weech showed us.” 


Back to Elizabeth 191 

“Precisely!” agreed Parslewe, drily. “It 
was here in this very room, at that table, that 
I had the honour of meeting Sperrigoe.” 

“When?” demanded Madrasia. 

“Oh! Some time ago,” he answered, indif¬ 
ferently. 

“Then, if you’d been at home when he 
called at Kelpieshaw the other morning, he’d 
have known you?” said Madrasia, giving me 
a kick under the table. “Of course he would, 
as you’d met before.” 

“He might have known my face,” answered 
Parslewe. “But he wouldn’t have known 
my name; at least, I mean, he never knew 
my name when I met him here. We chanced 
to meet here, as strangers, happening to dine 
together at the same table; we smoked a 
cigar together afterwards, and chatted about 
the old town. I heard his name, but he never 
heard mine; to him I was a mere bird-of- 
passage. I guess,” he went on, with one of 
his cynical laughs, “old Sperrigoe would have 
been vastly astonished if he’d found me in 
at Kelpieshaw and had recognised in me the 
stranger of the Crown!” 


192 The Copper Box 

4 ‘Have you come here to see old Sperri- 
goe?” demanded Madrasia. 

Parslewe was the best hand I ever came 
across at the fine art of disregarding a direct 
question. His face became utterly blank 
and his lips set, and remained so until a new 
whim came over him, and he began to tell 
us something of the history of the old house 
to which he had brought us. Of that he 
would talk, but we both saw that it was no 
use questioning him on any other subject, 
and we left him alone. But I had already 
learned something—Parslewe had been there 
before; he had met White Whiskers there; 
White Whiskers would know him; without a 
doubt he had come there to meet White 
Whiskers. But why on earth did he elude 
White Whiskers at Kelpieshaw? 

Before the evening closed I learned some¬ 
thing else. Madrasia retired early; Parslewe 
began writing a letter in the smoking-room; 
left to myself, I strolled out to the front door 
of the hotel to take a look at my surround¬ 
ings. The old Market Place was flooded in 
bright moonlight, and I saw at once that 
Parslewe had been right when he spoke of 


Back to Elizabeth 193 

it as a bit of mediaeval England. On all 
sides of me were ancient half-timbered houses 
with high gables and quaintly ornamented 
fronts; above them, at one end of the square, 
rose the tall square tower of a church; front¬ 
ing it, at the other end, was what I took to 
be an old Moot Hall. But for the gas-lamps 
which twinkled here and there, and for 
the signs and names above the shops, I 
should have thought myself thrown back to 
Tudor times. 

The hall-porter came out as I stood there, 
looked up at the sky, and remarked that we 
should have a fine day to-morrow, and that 
good weather was desirable, for people were 
beginning to go about. 

“You get tourists here, I suppose?” said I. 

“No end of ’em, sir,” he answered. “Deal 
of Americans come here—they like that sort 
of thing”—waving his hand towards the old 
houses opposite. “Nothing of that sort in 
their country, I understand, sir. Oh, yes, full 
of tourists all the summer months, sir.” 

“But you don’t remember all their faces, 
do you?” I suggested. 



194 The Copper Box 

He laughed at my reference to his remark 
on our arrival. 

“Why, no, sir, not chance comers like that,” 
he admitted. “Though I wouldn’t be too 
sure on that point—one gets into a habit of 
noticing, you know, sir. But in the case of 
anybody who stops here a day or two—never 
forget, sir. I knew your friend at once— 
noticeable gentleman, of course.” 

“Easily recognised,” I suggested. 

“Just so, sir. Though it’ll be—let me see 
—yes, three years or so since he was here,” 
he answered. “Oh, I remember him well 
enough. Stopped here two or three nights, 
one autumn. A collector of curiosities, I 
think, sir. I remember I bought him a couple 
of packing-cases to carry away odds and ends 
that he’d bought in the town. Considerable 
trade done in that way here, sir—half those 
shops you see on the other side are curio 
shops.” 

“How do they keep up their stock?” I 
asked. 

“Ah! that’s a question that a lot of people 
have put to me, sir,” he replied. “You’d 
almost think they manufacture things! But 



Back to Elizabeth 


195 


the fact is, sir, this is an old part of England, 
with a lot of old houses about, old country 
seats, and the like. And families die out, 
and the stuff they’ve been accumulating for 
generations comes to auction, and a lot of it 
gets into these curio shops—that’s how it’s 
done, sir. Plenty of antiques in those shops, 
sir, but nothing to what there is in the old 
houses in the neighbourhood.” 

“Do you know a house near here called 
Palkeney Manor?” I asked, thinking that as 
this was an intelligent and communicative 
man I might as well improve my own 
knowledge. “There is such a place, I think?” 

“Palkeney Manor, sir!” he answered 
readily. “To be sure, sir! Three miles 
out—fine old house that is—sort of show- 
place; you can look round it by paying a 
shilling—all our American customers go 
there, and the shillings go to the local chari¬ 
ties. Oh, yes! that was old Mr. Matthew 
Palkeney’s. Dead now, he is, and they do 
say that the lawyers don’t know who the 
property belongs to—haven’t found out yet, 
anyway. Fine property it is, too. Queer old 
gentleman, old Mr. Palkeney!—and that 


196 The Copper Box 

reminds me that I think your friend knew 
him, sir. Leastways, the last day your friend 
was here I remember that old Mr. Palkeney 
drove up in his carriage and gave me a parcel 
for him—I helped him to pack that parcel in 
one of the cases I’d bought for him.” 

“You’ve an excellent memory,” I remarked. 

“Oh, well, one thinks of things, sir,” he 
answered. “Faces, now, sir, they stir your 
memory up, don’t you think? And I’ve seen 
some remarkable faces in my time—faces that 
you’d remember twenty years after. Some 
faces, of course, is that ordinary that you 
never notice ’em. But others-” 

At that moment Parslewe put his face 
through the swing door behind us, and seeing 
the hall-porter on the steps came out. He 
had a letter in his hand. Coming to the hall- 
porter he waved the letter towards the west 
end of the Market Place. 

“Isn’t Sir Charles Sperrigoe’s office just 
round that corner?” he asked. “Aye? Well, 
just go and put this note into his letter¬ 
box, will you? Then he’ll get it first thing 
in the morning. Go now, there’s a good 
fellow!” He turned to me when the man 



Back to Elizabeth 


197 


had gone on his errand. “Well, master!’’ 
he asked, in his half-cynical, half-humorous 
fashion. “How does this appeal to your 
artistic sense?” 

“A fine setting for a mystery, Mr. 
Parslewe,” I answered. 

“I dare say you’re right,” he said with a 
laugh. “But I think we shall have done 
with mysteries to-morrow, my lad. And what 
mysteiy there is has been none of my 
making! Well, I’m off to my bed. Good 
night.” 

With that, and a pleasant nod, he went 
unconcernedly off, and presently I followed 
his example, more mystified than ever by his 
last remark. For if he had not made all this 
mystery, who had? 

Whether the mystery was going to be done 
with next day or not, its atmosphere was still 
thick upon us next morning. At ten o’clock, 
Parslewe, who invariably made all his arrange¬ 
ments without consulting anybody who was 
affected by them, marshalled us into a 
carriage and pair at the door of the Crown 
and gave some instructions, aside, to the 
coachman. We drove off into a singu- 


i$8 The Copper Box 

larly picturesque and well-wooded country. 
Madrasia, fresh from the almost treeless 
slopes of the Cheviots, was immediately in 
raptures with it. Already the trees were in 
leaf, the wide-spreading meadows were cov¬ 
ered with fresh green, and in the vistas of 
woodland through which we passed daffodils 
and wood anemones made splashes of colour 
against the bursting verdure. New to her, 
too, were the quaint thatched cottages, many 
of them half-timbered, and all ancient, by the 
roadside. 

“It’s like the old England that one sees in 
pictures!” she exclaimed. “It’s as if we’d 
gone back!” 

“We have gone back,” said Parslewe, with 
one of his queer, grim looks. “Back to 
Elizabeth! There’s not much that’s altered 
hereabouts since Shakespeare’s time—neither 
houses nor men. And if you’re going to 
develop a taste for medievalism, my dear, 
you’ll soon be satisfied—we’re presently going 
to set foot in a house that’s as old as they 
make ’em.” 

But before this came about the carriage 
stopped at a wayside cottage, and Parslewe, 



Back to Elizabeth 199 

without a word to us, got out, knocked at the 
door, and went in. He remained inside for 
several minutes; when he emerged again it 
was in the company of a tall, weather-beaten 
old man whom, because of his velveteen coat 
and general appearance, I took to be a game- 
keeper. Motioning to the coachman to fol¬ 
low him up the road, Parslewe walked on 
ahead with his companion, and presently 
turned into a wayside wood. Coming abreast 
of the bridle-gate by which they had entered, 
we saw them in conversation with a third 
man, also elderly, who was felling trees; 
for some minutes the three stood talking 
together. 

“What is he after now?” asked Madrasia. 

I shook my head—nothing was going to 
draw me into speculations about Parslewe’s 
proceedings. 

“The best thing at the present juncture,” 
said I, as oracularly as possible, “is just to 
let things occur. I don’t know what he’s 
after! Let him pursue it! We shall find 
things out as we go on.” 

“Where are we going?” she asked. 

“I imagine—but I may be wrong—that 


200 


The Copper Box 

we’re on our way to that Palkeney Manor of 
which Murthwaite told us,” said I. “I think 
we’ve been on our way to it ever since we left 
Newcastle yesterday morning. That’s prob¬ 
ably the house that’s as old as they make 
’em. You’d better be prepared—for any¬ 
thing. I am!” 

“What do you mean?” she demanded. 
“You’re getting cryptic too!” 

“I think my brains are addled!” I 
answered. “Never mind! I know some¬ 
thing!” 

“What?” she asked. 

I bent forward to her, endeavouring to look 
as mysterious as I possibly could, and spoke 
in a hushed voice. 

“This!” I said, thrillingly. “Parslewe has 
the copper box in his pocket!” 

She drew back, staring at me as if she 
wondered whether my mind had given way. 
I nodded solemnly. 

“Fact!” said I. “I saw him put it there! 
I';’: in the right-hand outer pocket of his coat. 
And in the copper box lies the explanation of 
—everything! Hush!—not a word! He’s 
coming back.” 


Back to Elizabeth 


201 


Parslewe came back, leaving the two old 
men talking together, and I noticed that they 
stared after his retreating figure with vast 
interest. But instead of getting into the car¬ 
riage again, he motioned to us, in his usual 
imperious fashion, to get out. Then he 
turned to the coachman. 

“Isn’t there an inn along the road there, 
near the village?” he asked. “Just so; then 
you go and put up your horses at it, and 
wait there till I send for you. We’ll do the 
rest on foot,” he went on, turning to us. 
“There’s a path through the woods a little 
farther on.” 

He led us up the road for another hundred 
yards, then turned into a bridle-track that 
wound through a mass of venerable old trees 
for a good half-mile. We made slow prog¬ 
ress, for Madrasia insisted on gathering a 
bunch of primroses. She was putting the 
last finishing touches to this when Parslewe, 
who had got a little ahead, called to us. 

“Now then, here you are!” he said. “Here’s 
the place!” 

We went on, and found him at the edge of 


202 


The Copper Box 

the wood, leaning over a gate. He pointed 
before him with his stick. 

“Palkeney Manor,” he remarked, drily. 

Madrasia let out a sudden, whole-souled 
exclamation of delighted wonder. I was not 
surprised; the scene before us was one of that 
peculiar charm and quiet beauty which no 
other country than our own can show. We 
were looking on an undulating park, vividly 
green, studded with old trees beneath which 
antlered deer were browsing; there was a 
tree-shaded stretch of water in one of the 
miniature valleys, and cattle standing knee- 
deep in it, and above this, on a rising ground, 
backed by tall elms and giant chestnuts, stood 
a beautiful old house, mellowed by centuries 
of age. 

We were all intent for a time, staring. 
Then Madrasia spoke, softly. 

“What a picture of a place!” she said. 
“Jimmie! even you must think it is!” 

But Parslewe gave us one of his queer 
looks. 

“Um!” he answered. “To tell you the 
truth, my girl, I was wondering if the drains 


Back to Elizabeth 


203 


are all right! Picturesqueness is all very 
well—but, however, we’ll go a bit nearer.” 

We went slowly across the park, admiring 
its sylvan beauties, past the shining water, 
past the shy deer, and up to the front of the 
house, Madrasia’s ecstasies of admiration 
increasing with eveiy step we took. And as 
for myself, I was beginning to have a great 
wonder and an itching curiosity—especially 
the itching curiosity. What were we doing 
here? 

But Parslewe seemed to know. He led 
us straight to the front door, which stood 
open. 

“This is a show-place on certain days in 
the week,” he said. “This is one of those 
days, so we can go in.” 

We went in. An elderly woman appeared. 
She wore a black silk apron, and a thin gold 
chain round her neck; I took these to be 
symbolic of her rank and estate as house¬ 
keeper. And I noticed that after a first 
glance at him, she gave Parslewe a steady, 
knowing inspection. 

“Good morning to you, ma’am,” said 
Parslewe, with his best old-fashioned 


204 The Copper Box 

politeness. “I understand we may look 
round?” 

The housekeeper explained. The state 
rooms, including those once used by Queen 
Elizabeth, and the bed in which her Majesty 
had slept, were open to inspection. Visitors 
paid a shilling each; the shillings were given 
to the local charities. So Parslewe paid three 
shillings, and we all inscribed our names in 
a book—Parslewe last. And as he laid down 
the pen under the housekeeper’s eye, he 
turned and looked at her. 

“Now, ma’am!” he said. “Have you ever 
seen me before?” 

The woman gave him a quiet, watchful 
look. 

“Yes, sir,” she answered readily. “I remem¬ 
ber you. You’re the gentleman who dined 
here with my late master some three years 
ago, and spent the evening with him. But I 
never heard your name, sir.” 

Parslewe nodded, and remarking that there 
was no need to show us round, he’d prefer 
to be left to himself, led us into the 
hall and up a great staircase to the state 
apartments. It was evident at once that he 


Back to Elizabeth 


205 


knew the whole place, and for the next hour 
he was in his element as guide while we were 
lost in wonder and admiration at the things 
he showed us. And we were examining the 
veiy bed on which Queen Elizabeth had 
stretched her limbs when the housekeeper 
came in, more interested in Parslewe than 
ever. 

“Sir,” she said, with something of defer¬ 
ence. “Sir Charles Sperrigoe’s compliments, 
and he awaits your pleasure in the morning- 
room.” 



XII 


The Palkeney Motto 

I T was characteristic of Parslewe that he 
deliberately finished what he was telling 
us about Queen Elizabeth and her visit to 
Palkeney before he made any move in the 
direction of Sir Charles Sperrigoe. I am 
afraid we only heard a half of what he said; 
we were both conscious that what we might 
hear downstairs was certain to prove of far 
greater interest than anything Parslewe could 
tell us about the sixteenth century. Person¬ 
ally, I felt a throb of excitement when at 
last he turned away from the queer old 
chamber in which we stood. 

“Well, come on!” he said, “I suppose 
we must see this chap and clear things up. 
Didn’t she say the morning-room?” 

He seemed to know where that was well 
enough, and led the way straight to it; its 

door was slightly open, and as Parslewe 

207 


208 The Copper Box 

threw it wide we became aware of Sir 
Charles, posted on the hearth, his large face 
turned expectantly towards us. Its expres¬ 
sion was severe, pompous, and ncr>-com¬ 
mittal, but it changed with startling rapidity 
as his eyes fell on Parslewe. He almost 
jumped, indeed—moved, recovered himself, 
gasped. 

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “My 
dear sir, surely we have met before?” 

Parslewe laughed sardonically. 

“Aye, surely!” he answered, in his most 
casual fashion. “Neither of us difficult to 
recognise, I should think, Sir Charles. And 
I understand you’ve met these young people 
before, too?” 

Sir Charles hastened to acknowledge us— 
perfunctorily; it was evident that we were 
very unimportant factors in the situation 
compared to Parslewe, upon whom his eyes 
were fastened with strange interest. 

“I have had that pleasure,” he said. “But 
you, my dear sir—we met, one night, some 
—is it two, or is it three years ago?— 
at the Crown, in our neighbouring town, 
where, I believe, you are now staying? I 


The Palkeney Motto 209 

remember our conversation—instructive and 
—and enjoyable. Dear me! But I never 
knew your name.” 

“I knew yours,” said Parslewe, with a 
grin. That’s just why I wouldn’t see you 
when you came to my house.” 

Sir Charles stared—this was beyond him. 
He looked from one to the other of us; 
finally at Parslewe. There was that in his 
expression which made me think that he was 
wondering if Parslewe might not be a little 
mad. 

“But why, my good sir?” he asked 
soothingly. “Why? Am I so-” 

Parslewe laughed and pointed to the 
panelling over the big fireplace. There, 
carved in oak, was the Palkeney coat-of- 
arms, and beneath it the motto that had 
excited my wonder when I first saw it on the 
copper box. 

“Do you see that?” he asked. “Aye?— 
well, you see, I have the Palkeney blood in 
my veins! And what I please to do, that 
I do!—without caring for or consulting 
anybody. Family characteristic, Sperrigoe! 
But I guess you’ve seen it before, eh?” 






210 The Copper Box 

Sir Charles was still staring at him. He 
looked like a man who has unexpectedly 
got hold of some curious animal and is 
uncertain what it is about to do next. But 
after rubbing his chin a little, he spoke. 

“Do I understand you to say that you have 
the Palkeney blood in your veins ?” he 
inquired. “Then-” 

Parslewe suddenly pointed to the table 
which stood in the centre of the room, sign¬ 
ing us all to be seated at it; I noticed that 
he himself took the chair at its head as with 
an unchallengeable authority. 

“Better sit down and do our business,” he 
said. Then, as we settled round the table, 
Madrasia and I on his right and left hand, 
and Sir Charles opposite to him, he put a 
hand in his coat pocket, drew out the copper 
box, and with one of his queer smiles, set it 
before him. “Do you know what that is, 
Sperrigoe?” he asked. 

Sir Charles made a wry face. 

“The cause of much worry and anxiety to 
me, my dear sir!” he answered. “I can see 
what it is well enough!” 

“Aye, and you want to know how I got 



The Palkeney Motto 211 

it, don’t you?” suggested Parslewe. “So do 
these young people. I’ll tell you. Old 
Matthew Palkeney made me a present of it.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Charles. “You were 
acquainted with him?” 

“Don’t I tell you I’ve got Palkeney blood 
in my veins?” said Parslewe. “My great¬ 
grandmother was a Palkeney—born in this 
house. I have the Palkeney pedigree, and 
the Parslewe pedigree—at your service, any 
time. And when I came to the Crown, on 
the occasion you’ve just mentioned, it was 
just out of curiosity to see this place. I in¬ 
troduced myself to old Matthew. I’d brought 
my pedigree with me; we compared notes and 
family documents, and enjoyed ourselves. I 
dined here with him one night, and we went 
thoroughly into family history.” 

“He was convinced of your relationship?” 
asked Sir Charles. 

“He couldn’t be anything else,” said 
Parslewe, drily. “The thing’s there—it’s 
fact. But we didn’t dwell overmuch on 
that, once it was settled. We were more 
concerned with our mutual taste for old 
things. Amd the next day the old man 



212 


The Copper Box 

drove up to the Crown, when I was out, and 
left for me a parcel. It contained this 
copper box, which has been in the family for 
I don’t know how long, and some six or seven 
old books which I had admired—a nice pres¬ 
ent. I wrote him a nice letter in return, and 
carried my present home. Not knowing, 
mind you,” added Parslewe, with a sudden 
keen look, “what this box contained.” 

Sir Charles was getting keenly attentive. 
He looked like a man who has become sure 
that something is going to be sprung on him. 

“My dear sir!” he said. “What did it 
contain?” 

Parslewe picked up the copper box and 
tapped it significantly. 

“I never knew that it contained anything 
until some thirty-six hours ago!” he answered. 
“I never should have known if you fellows 
hadn’t made such a fuss about it. But when 
you did—when I found out from Craye here 
that you yourself were on the prowl, there 
in Northumberland, and after me—well, I 
naturally began to put two and two together. 
And it seemed to me that the secret lay with 
that man Bickerdale, to whom I’d entrusted 


The Palkeney Motto 213 

the copper box for repair, and who’d had it 
in his hands long enough to find out about it 
more than I had. It struck me that Bicker- 
dale, not content with what he’d got out of 
you for telling where the box was, had dis¬ 
covered something in it which he was hold¬ 
ing back in hopes of a further and more 
substantial reward. So I just went to New¬ 
castle and started to find that out. I did 
find it out—and though I’m not clear now 
as to when Bickerdale found a certain docu¬ 
ment in the box, I did find out that he’d not 
only found one, but had got it! And in 
Craye’s presence and in the presence of your 
man Pawley, to whom I’d just given a 
certain piece of confidential information—I 
forced it out of Bickerdale. I’ve got it! 
And it solves the question that’s been bother¬ 
ing you.” 

Sir Charles was getting more and more 
impatient; his plump white fingers were 
drumming on the table. And as Parslewe 
finished, he voiced his impatience in a quick, 
direct question. 

“What is this document?” 

Parslewe smiled, and turned the copper 


214 The Copper Box 

box over, so that the four rounded feet at its 
comers stood uppermost. 

“I’ll show it to you now,” he said. “And 
I’ll show you where old Matthew Palkeney 
had hidden it, probably intending before he 
died to tell you, Sperrigoe, where it was 
hidden. Now look here; there’s a false 
bottom to this box. You unscrew these 
knobs so, one after the other. When they’re 
unscrewed, like that, you lift this plate; 
there’s a thin cavity between it and the inner 
floor of the box. And here’s the document. 
I put it back in the box so that you could 
see for yourself where it had been con¬ 
cealed.” 

He tossed over the table the envelope 
which I had seen him take from Bickerdale. 
The solicitor picked it up eagerly. He drew 
out the sheet of letter paper which lay within, 
and his sharp, shrewd eyes had read what¬ 
ever was written there in a few seconds. He 
gave a gasp; his big face flushed; he looked 
across at Parslewe. 

“Good God, my dear sir!” he exclaimed. 
“Do—do you know what this—what this— 
this most important document—is?” 


The Palkeney Motto 215 

“I do!” replied Parslewe, drily. “But 
these two don’t.” 

Sir Charles turned to us. I think he found 
some relief for his astonished feelings in 
having somebody .to announce something to. 

“This—this is a will!” he said, in almost 
awestruck accents. “The will of my late 
client, Mr. Matthew Palkeney! Made by 
himself on a single sheet of notepaper! But 
in strict order, duly executed and attested. I 
know the witnesses-” 

“So do I,” observed Parslewe, with a laugh. 
“Talked to both of ’em this morning on the 
way here.” 

“And—and, in short, it is what it is!” 
continued Sir Charles. “Nothing can upset 
it! And in it, in as few words as ever he 
could use, Mr. Matthew Palkeney leaves 
everything of which he dies possessed to—Mr. 
Parslewe! Wonderful!” 

Parslewe thrust his hands in his pockets. 

“I don’t see anything very wonderful 
about it,” he remarked, coldly. “We were 
of the same blood! The old man evidently 
wanted to—and he did. But he never con¬ 
sulted me, you know, Sperrigoe.” 



216 The Copper Box 

“All the more pleasant surprise for you, 
my dear sir!” exclaimed Sir Charles. A new 
mood appeared to have come over him; 
after re-reading the will more attentively, he 
rubbed his hands, chuckled, beamed on all 
three of us, and seemed to have had a great 
weight lifted off his mind. “My hearty 
congratulations, sir!” he went on, with an 
almost reverential inclination of his head 
across the table. “A very, very handsome 
property you have come into by this, Mr. 
Parslewe! One of the most beautiful old 
houses in England, a charming, if small 
estate, and—yes, I should say, as a good 
estimate, some five or six thousand a year! 
Delightful!” 

But Parslewe, leaning back in his chair, 
with his hands thrust in his breeches pockets, 
had set those thin lips of his. He looked over 
the table at Sir Charles as if he were never 
going to speak. But he spoke. 

“Aye!” he said, in his driest, hardest 
tones. “Just so! Maybe! But you see, I 
don’t want it. And I won’t have it!” 

A dead silence fell on us. Madrasia 
turned wonderingly towards her guardian. 


The Palkeney Motto 217 

I was already watching him. As for Sir 
Charles Sperrigoe, he flushed crimson—as if 
somebody had struck him an insulting blow. 
He leaned forward. 

“You—my dear sir, I am, I fear, inclining 
to deafness,” he said. “Did I understand 
you to say-” 

“I said I don’t want it, and I won’t have 
it!” repeated Parslewe, loudly. “I should 
have told old Matthew that if he’d ever asked 
me about it. I’m a man of fixed and im¬ 
mutable principle. When I went out to India 
as a young man, I made a vow that I’d never 
own or take anything in this life that I didn’t 
earn by my own effort, and I’ll stick to it! 
I don’t want the Palkeney estate, nor the 
Palkeney house, nor the Palkeney money— 
I’ve plenty of money of my own, more than 
I know what to do with, and a house that 
suits me better than this does. If you want 
to know me, look again at that motto! What 
I please, that I’ll do! And I won’t have this 
—that’s flat!” 

Sir Charles’s astonished face regained its 
normal colour, and he suddenly laughed with 
genuine amusement. 



2 l8 


The Copper Box 

“Dear, dear!” he said. “There is no doubt, 
my dear sir, of your Palkeney blood—the 
Palkeneys were always eccentric. But— 
you’re forgetting something; a very pertinent 
something. This place is yours! Yours! 
Everything’s yours! I think I should put my 
—rather rash and hasty—vow in my pocket, 
my dear sir!” 

Parslewe’s lips became tight again. But 
they presently relaxed, and he bent forward 
to the table again, and began to smile. 

“If this place and the whole thing is mine, 
absolutely and entirely,” he said in honeyed 
accent, “I reckon I can do just what I like 
with it, what?” 

“There’s no man can say you nay!” 
answered Sir Charles. “It’s—yours!” 

“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Parslewe, 
with one of his beautiful smiles and a wave 
of his hand. “I’ll give it to these two young 
people! They’re just suited to each other, 
and it’ll fit their tastes like a glove. They 
can get married at once, and settle down here, 
and I’ll come and see them sometimes, and 
they can come and see me sometimes at 
Kelpieshaw. That’s the best way I can see 


The Palkeney Motto 219 

out of the difficulty. We’ll settle it on them 
and their children-” 

But by this time Madrasia’s cheeks were 
aflame, and she turned on Parslewe with 
blazing eyes. 

“Jimmie!” she exclaimed. “How—how 
dare you? When will you give up that 
wicked habit of settling other people’s affairs 
as if—as if they were so many puppets ? 
Why—why—Mr. Craye has never even asked 
me to marry him!” 

Parslewe turned the full force of his 
grimmest smile on us. 

“Well, my dear!” he retorted leisurely. 
“It’s his own fault if he hasn’t! I’m sure he’s 
had plenty of opportunity. But-” 

Sir Charles rose to the occasion. He rose 
literally from his chair, bending towards 
Parslewe; he even allowed himself to indulge 
in a slight wink at Parslewe. 

“My dear sir!” he cooed. “I think—er— 
if we left our young friends together, my 
dear sir! A little—er—informal conversa¬ 
tion between them—eh?—while you and I— 
shall we try a glass of the famous Palkeney 




220 


The Copper Box 

dry sherry in another apartment, my dear sir? 
Just so—just so-” 

In another moment he had coaxed Parslewe 
out of the room; the door closed on them. 
Madrasia and I, seated at opposite sides of 
the table, stared at each other. It seemed a 
long time before I found my tongue. 

“Madrasia!” I managed to say at last. 
“Madrasia!” 

“Well?” she answered. 

“Madrasia!” I continued. “This is abso¬ 
lutely awful! You know what your guardian 
is!—a dreadful man. Nothing will prevent 
him from having his own way about—about 
anything! Whether we like it or not, he’ll 
go and do what—what he said he would do 
just now.” 

Madrasia looked down at the table, and 
began to study the pattern of the cloth. 

“Well?” she said. 

“I don’t think it’s at all well,” said I. 
“Supposing—just supposing, you know— 
supposing we fell in with his wishes and— 
and got married. I’m just supposing, of 
course!” 

“Well?” she said, again. 



The Palkeney Motto 221 

“Don’t you see what a dreadful thing that 
would be?” I said. 

She gave me a quick flash of her eye—* 
there, and gone in a second. 

“Why?” she demanded. 

“People would say I married you for 
your money,” I declared boldly. “That 
would be awful for both of us!” 

She remained silent a moment, tracing the 
pattern of the cloth with the tip of her finger,, 
Then she spoke—emphatically. 

“Rot!” she said. 

“No!” said I, with equal emphasis. 
“Because they would! I know ’em! And 
it’s beastly hard on me; it upsets my plans. 
Parslewe’s upset all my plans. If I’d only 
known-” 

“Only known what?” she asked. 

“Only known that he was going to spring 
this on us!” I answered, bitterly. “If I’d 
only known that, I’d—I’d have-” 

“You’d have what?” she asked, as I paused 
and hesitated. 

“Well—I’d have proposed to you this 
morning when we were in the hotel garden, 
or in that carriage, or in the wood, when 




222 


The Copper Box 



Parslewe was ahead,” I answered. “Or yes¬ 
terday, or the day before, or the day before 
that—any time since I first met you. But 
now—wouldn’t it look as if I were proposing 
to the Palkeney estate?” 

She suddenly looked up, gave me a queer 
glance, and rising from her chair walked 
over to one of the embrasured windows. I 
followed her—and after a moment’s silence, 
slipped my arm round her waist. 

“What on earth’s to be done?” I asked 
her. “Tell me!” 

I got her to look round at last. 

“You’re an awful old ass!” she said in a 
whisper. “I saw the way out at once. He 
didn’t say he’d give all this to me! He said 
he’d give it to— usf* 

“Is it going to be—us, then?” I demanded 
eagerly. 

“Seems very like it, I think, doesn’t it?” she 
answered, demurely. 

So—but not for a little while—we went to 
tell Parslewe. 


THE END 














































































